


the golden age of something good

by somehowunbroken



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 05:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15599631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: Dylan Strome has little in common with the eligible gentlemen of London society. His famous father made his fortune hunting archaeological treasures, and Dylan's rustic upbringing has left him ill-prepared for a life of parties and frippery. But when his father and two brothers go missing, Dylan must embrace the unknown. Armed with only the short list of highborn men who'd backed his father's venture, he poses as a young man looking for a wealthy husband. He doesn't intend to find one.





	the golden age of something good

**Author's Note:**

> written for [unconventional courtship 2018!](https://unconventionalcourtship.dreamwidth.org/)
> 
> it takes a village!! thanks to lor, dean, and ari, who alpha read this and did some preliminary typo-hunting; additional thanks to g, who did a super meticulous typo-comb on a pretty last-minute basis. tip of the hat to lor for the title recommendation, which is from taylor swift's "state of grace." many, many apologies for any remaining typos; my keyboard is kind of an adventure right now, and even with all the edits this went through, i'm certain some got missed. (if you find any, please let me know so i can fix them!)
> 
> i have wanted to write regency fic for SO LONG. i'm thrilled that i finally had the chance to, and i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.

Dylan counts himself lucky, in a way. He's neither the eldest son nor the youngest, which grants him a certain degree of freedom. Ryan, as the one entrusted with carrying on the family name and legacy, is betrothed to the Earl of Oakville, a rather dull man named John whom Ryan somehow finds charming; on the other hand, Matthew, dear Matty, is held so closely to their mother's whims that Dylan fears he'll never see freedom. Dylan lies between the two of them, allowed to come and go mostly as he pleases, so long as he goes where he's asked to go on the rare occasions that he's required to make an appearance.

"Dylan, do stop fussing," Mother says to him, somehow without losing the smile she's wearing. "I know that you would rather be off gallivanting with your father—"

"Quite right," Dylan replies quietly. He's not yet mastered the art of smiling while speaking, but he pastes it back on his face when Mother glares at him. "I'm still not given to understand the situation, Mother. Why did you choose me to accompany you today and send Father off with Ryan and Matty? Surely you know that Ryan is more… socially adept, shall we say, and that Matty is dearer to many of your acquaintances." Matty may tower over the rest of them, even as young as he is, but many of Mother's friends still fuss over him as much as they had when he was truly a child.

"People have been asking after you," Mother says, just as she had when Dylan asked her this morning, and yesterday, and a week ago when she first told him he'd be accompanying her today. "It's good to make an appearance every now and again, Dylan."

Dylan sighs and tries to adjust his cuffs as surreptitiously as possible. Mother clearly sees, but she doesn't comment, and Dylan counts himself lucky.

"Right, then," Mother says, looking around. "I wanted to introduce you to someone. Where is—"

"Lady Strome," someone calls, and Dylan turns, more at the tone than his family name. Mother turns as well, a quizzical expression on her face. Hurrying towards them is Lord McLeod, the host of tonight's gathering and the husband of Mother's dearest bosom companion. "Lady Strome, Master Strome. Please come with me immediately."

"Is something the matter?" Mother asks, a frown appearing on her face

"Please," Lord McLeod says, pitching his voice lower as he comes to a stop beside them. "To the library. We can speak freely there without alarming anyone."

"Count me among the alarmed, good sir," Dylan says even as they start walking. "Has something happened? Are your sons harmed?"

"No," Lord McLeod says, sparing Dylan a glance. "Matthew and Michael are in the stables, and Ryan is attending to his mother. You, Dylan, should prepare to join the elder two shortly."

There's a heavy feeling in the pit of Dylan's stomach; he rides often with Michael, the middle McLeod son, but he can think of no reason why the sons of the host would be preparing to ride at this hour and no reason why he should join them if they did, not without some precipitous event. "Sir," Dylan begins as they draw near to the library.

"Inside, inside," Lord McLeod says, opening the door and gesturing for them to enter.

Dylan walks in first, followed by his mother; he fears no ill will from the McLeod family, not after so many years of close friendship, but he would never send her before him into a room when something urgent is clearly weighing upon everyone.

"Oh, Trish," Lady McLeod says, rising from her settee. She crosses the library quickly and pulls Mother into an embrace. Lady McLeod shudders slightly, and the knot of unease in Dylan's stomach grows tenfold.

"Please," he says, looking at Ryan, the youngest McLeod son. "Someone tell us what happened."

"There's been an incident," Lord McLeod says, voice heavy. "Word has come from the outpost near the forest that someone has taken your father and your two brothers hostage."

Mother lets out a wounded noise; Dylan is glad that Lady McLeod is beside her, because he feels rooted to the ground beneath him. "Hostage? Who would do such a thing?"

"There is no note, as of yet," Lord McLeod says quietly. "But their belongings were found with them nowhere in sight, and a search party turned up signs of a fight."

"But no blood, no bodies, no signs of injury," Lady McLeod adds when Mother heaves a sob. "They've simply been taken, Trish. Word will surely come soon, and we can work with the constables to bring them home safely from there."

"Dylan," Ryan says quietly. He's appeared by Dylan's side, and he's holding riding clothing and a pair of boots. "We had no time to send for yours, but these should suit you for tonight."

"My thanks," Dylan says, almost without thought, as he takes the items from Ryan. He glances at Mother. "You'll keep her here? Keep her safe?"

Ryan looks at him, his face unusually solemn. Ryan is usually full of mirth, bringing laughter to whatever group of friends he rides with; tonight, however, he clasps Dylan's arm and nods, no trace of a smile in sight. "She will be safe. You have my word."

"And mine as well," Lord McLeod says. "Michael has a horse readied for you. Go quickly, Dylan. We all await whatever news you can find."

Dylan nods and walks over to Mother. There are tears streaming down her face, and she reaches out to take his hands in hers when he reaches her. "Be safe," she says, voice choked. "Find what news you can, Dylan, but please come home. _Please,_ Dylan."

"I will," he promises, though he knows he cannot be held to any such thing. "I will return shortly, Mother. Please be well."

She lets out another gutted-sounding sob and releases his hands, and Dylan turns and hurries from the room before the emotions overwhelm him as well.

-0-

Michael embraces him quickly when Dylan reaches the stables, and Matthew nods in his direction. "Change quickly," he says, pointing to an empty stall. "The faster we ride to the outpost, the faster we can figure out what our next steps should be."

"I'll just be a moment," Dylan promises, ducking into the stall. The clothing isn't a perfect fit, but Ryan was correct; it will serve him well enough for the night. He steps out after pulling the boots on and finds that Michael is holding two sets of reins. He says nothing as he passes over the ones attached to Lisette, who is easily the swiftest, strongest mount in the McLeod stables.

"Make haste," Matthew says. He's already atop his mount, a fine stallion called Gabriel, and he nods as Dylan swings onto Lisette's back. "We ride for the outpost. Have you any requests before we set off?"

"Ride quickly," Dylan says grimly. "And pray we find good news, else my mother may not be able to bear it."

"Amen," Michael says from atop Arrowhead. "Let us away."

They waste no time in making their way towards the outpost; the McLeod lands sit on the edge of Lorne Park, so there's no need to wind their way through town, and the route is somewhat roundabout, but they make it to the outpost in a matter of hours, though it's easily a half day's leisurely ride.

Dylan dismounts quickly; a stable boy rushes over to take the reins, and Dylan gives him a nod as he strides for the outpost commander's headquarters. It's been led by a man named Kadri for years now, a fearsome commander but good compatriot, from all that Dylan has heard. He's had no reason to speak with the man before tonight, but Kadri stands when Dylan enters his quarters.

"Lord Strome," he says, nodding curtly, and Dylan's blood runs cold.

"The laws of inheritance state that my brothers and I be referred to as the Masters Strome until our father passes, at which time the title falls to Ryan, my eldest brother," Dylan says. "Have you bleak news for me, Commander?"

Kadri spreads his hands. "I have nothing new to report to you," he says, tone nearly soothing. "I didn't mean to alarm you further. You remain the only Strome son that we can locate, and as such, the title falls to you until and unless we find the rest of your family."

Dylan breathes out. "My apologies for my reaction, Commander. The news has been... difficult." In truth, the news has been confusing and upsetting; Dylan has hardly had time to process any of it, but when he catches his mind wandering, it's to the memory of Mother weeping, the somewhat hollow tone of Lord McLeod's voice as he relayed the news. "So you have no further news?"

"My apologies," Kadri says, and that's enough of an answer for Dylan. "We recovered a handful of items belonging to your family, as well as three horses, left tethered and unattended."

That certainly dashes any faint hopes Dylan might've had about his father and brothers simply wandering off. Ryan is far too fond of horses to leave one without provisions enough for an expected absence, let alone three. Dylan nods instead of sharing; Kadri clearly doesn't think they simply wandered away, either. "Might I have whatever you collected?"

"Certainly," Kadri says. "The horses are in the stable, but everything else is in the next room." He hesitates a little. "I'm afraid it isn't much, Lord Strome."

"All the same, Commander," Dylan says, "I'd like to see it."

Kadri nods and leads him into the next room.

He's right; it truly isn't much. There are a few blankets, Matty's favourite knife, and a satchel that Dylan remembers his father packing. There's nothing inside it, and Dylan swallows against the rough feeling in his throat. "This is all?"

"This is all that we found, yes," Kadri confirms. "The horses were missing their saddlebags, too, so this truly is everything."

Dylan nods, gripping the satchel tightly. "Might I see the horses?"

"Of course," Kadri says. "Our stablemaster is expecting you. Back out the entrance, down and to the left."

"My thanks, Commander Kadri," Dylan says, gathering the blankets and Matty's knife and pushing them into the satchel. "If any news arises—"

"I will send word," Kadri promises. "You and your fellows are welcome to spend the night, Lord Strome. Mississauga is no short ride from here."

Dylan gives him another nod before walking out of the room. His mind is whirling so much that he nearly misses Michael, who's waiting for him just outside the door.

"Dylan," he calls. "Matthew went with the horses. He says two of yours are in the stable."

Dylan stops and turns to Michael. "Lord Kadri said they recovered three of my horses."

"Matthew saw Arborvitae and Lycea," Michael says. "Perhaps he missed one."

Dylan starts walking again, faster this time. "Ryan was riding Domino when he left. Is Matthew certain?"

"Certain of what?" Matthew asks, appearing in the doorway of the stable. "Dylan, I've found Arborvitae and Lycea. They seem unharmed."

"Domino," Dylan says, pulling up short beside Matthew. "Ryan was riding Domino."

Matthew shakes his head slowly. "Domino isn't here. Are you certain?"

Dylan nods and heads past Matthew, into the stable. "Hello?"

"Lord Strome," someone says, and Dylan hears Michael inhale sharply behind him. He'll have to address it later, surely, but for now he turns and nods at the man walking towards him. "I'm Jake Gardiner. I keep the horses."

"You have some of mine?" he asks. He's purposeful about not naming a number; he doesn't want to arouse suspicion of any sort, so he follows along as Jake nods and leads him towards the back of the stable.

Arborvitae and Lycea are, indeed, accounted for; the horse in the third stall, however, is not Domino. That's the stall Jake stops beside, though, and he gestures in. "We've fed and brushed them," he says. "They appear to be in good health, albeit somewhat spooked."

"You have my thanks," Dylan says. He steps up to the stall and offers the strange horse his hand; the horse sniffs at it, then turns away, disinterested. "Have you some rope we could use? I'd like to take them with me when we ride back to Mississauga."

"Certainly, sir," Jake says, nodding. "Morgan keeps our supplies. I'll have him send some along. Will you be riding right away?"

"No," Matthew cuts in. When Dylan looks over at him, he's looking right back, posture firm. "We've had a devil of a night, if you'll excuse me being crass. I heard that Commander Kadri offered us lodging for the night. We'll rest here and head out in the morning, as long as you can mind the Strome horses as well as the three we rode in on for the night."

"It's no trouble at all, Master McLeod," Jake says. "My Lucy keeps the house here. She'll be happy to see to your lodging if you head to the barracks."

"Our thanks," Matthew says. "We'll be off now, and we'll see you in the morning."

Dylan says nothing as he follows Matthew and Michael from the stable.

-0-

It is good, Dylan reflects, to have friends; they make life more pleasant, more full. However, he wishes nothing more than for Matthew and Michael to leave him be once they retire to the barracks.

"I am well enough," he says for what must be the tenth time. "I need to rest."

"You're certain?" Michael asks, as he has every time. "We wouldn't want to leave you if—"

Matthew heaves a sigh. "Michael," he says, finally standing. "Leave Dylan be. He will call for us if he needs anything."

"I will," Dylan promises hastily. "I swear it, Michael, I will call."

"Okay," Michael says, standing slowly. "We will be in the next room, Dylan, should anything arise."

"And I thank you," Dylan says, nodding and forcing a small smile. "I will see you in the morning."

He waits until the door has closed behind them and then a little more, listening carefully for the click of the other door. He makes himself count to one hundred in his head past that, just in case, and then he scrambles off of his bed and snatches his father's satchel from the writing desk in the room. The blankets inside he throws to the floor; Matty's knife is laid more carefully on his bed. He then flips the satchel inside-out and raises the bottom to his face, searching for—

"There," he says quietly. There is a small tab sewn into the seam, and Dylan grabs it and pulls gently. There is some resistance, so he tugs more firmly, and then he hears the seam give way, and he is left holding a piece of cloth with his father's handwriting on it.

Dylan is almost always the one to accompany his father on his trips; he knows, therefore, about all of the tricks of his father's trade. Some are more obvious, like the maxim to never travel alone, but some are much more subtle. Dylan is unsure if even Ryan and Matty know of this, of their father writing every detail of a job on a carefully-cut sheet of fabric, of him painstakingly sewing it into the lining of his satchel before departing. Dylan lays it flat on the desk, bringing the lantern in the room closer, and skims it quickly.

The shorthand used to write the note is as familiar to Dylan as breathing; the job was apparently to track down and retrieve a cache of artifacts brought over from Europe that have curiously gone missing over the last ten years. Dylan has heard of stories about several of the items listed; most were lost from private collections, and several were thought to have been lost in the general chaos that is moving items across the ocean. One of them, Dylan's sure, had been in transit on a ship known to have been lost at sea, yet there it is, written in Father's tidy print between two statuettes listed as stolen.

"The scope," Dylan murmurs, turning the fabric over and reading more on the back. There are nearly a hundred items, listed in no particular order that Dylan can discern, and he wonders at his father's ability to find a connection between all of them. Dylan knows without a shred of doubt that the people responsible for a heist of this magnitude would have no qualms about kidnapping the man in charge of figuring out their secret; his only hope now is that they did not simply take Father, Ryan, and Matty to a more remote location to do away with them out of the public eye.

Dylan crosses the room and fetches his own satchel, removing the mending kit from the pocket inside. He replaces the fabric sheet into Father's satchel and quickly tacks it into place, just as he'd seen Father do countless times, and sews the false bottom seam back in before turning the bag to rights and putting the blankets back inside. He hesitates with Matty's knife; it wouldn't be fair to call it Matty's most prized possession, but Dylan knows the regard he holds for it. He leaves it out; he can carry it until he can safely return it to its rightful owner.

Dylan readies himself for sleep and climbs into bed, but his thoughts are racing far too quickly for him to close his eyes. He has nothing so solid as a lead, but he has a place to begin looking for one. Father's journals are at home, Dylan's sure; he keeps meticulous notes on each job he undertakes in a place where he can reference them if needed. There is a false-bottomed drawer in Father's desk, which is the first place that Dylan intends to look upon returning home tomorrow. Hopefully Father kept records of who had hired him, or at the least, the original owners of all of the missing items. Dylan can find out for himself, but it will save a lot of time if the groundwork is already laid for him.

And then, he thinks as he finally closes his eyes, he can begin to search for them himself, and in doing so, find his family.

-0-

The ride back to Lorne Park is quiet; Michael had started in on asking how Dylan was faring almost as soon as he'd awoken this morning, but thankfully Matthew had pulled him aside before it became too invasive. Now Dylan is riding between Michael and Matthew, atop Lisette at a gentle pace as he leads the unknown horse back home.

It's strange, Dylan thinks, to keep his discoveries of the night before from Michael and Matthew; the Strome and McLeod families are steadfast friends, and Dylan had spent as much time at the McLeod household as he had his own growing up, and vice versa. It's not that they don't know what Father does for a living, or the dangers associated therewith, nor would they judge anything about the situation were Dylan to reveal the particulars to them. Dylan isn't sure why he holds back, excepting that he feels a sense of danger about the situation, perhaps even more so than the facts already demand on their own.

The road splits when they reach Lorne Park; going to the left will take them to the McLeod estate, but they keep straight, heading for Dylan's family home. Matthew had suggested that they ride there first to settle the horses in their home stable, and then he and Michael would ride to fetch Dylan's mother from their estate and escort her home. Dylan had agreed readily; the horses should be led home first, but it will also give him a chance to look around in Father's study before Mother arrives and requires his full attention.

Arborvitae whinnies softly when the estate comes into view, and Michael chuckles. "Almost there," he promises. "Dylan, shall I let her free once we're inside the paddock?"

"Do, yes," Dylan says, smiling a little. "Lycea as well, Matthew. I'll put this one up, though."

The brothers agree, and Dylan follows Michael toward the paddock without paying much attention, so he has to pull up short when he notices that Michael has stopped in front of him. "Michael?"

"You mentioned," Michael says slowly. He is looking ahead at the paddock, and Dylan frowns. "Ryan was riding Domino, you said?"

Dylan says nothing, merely nudges Lisette to the side, and something in his chest swells when he sees Domino grazing in the paddock. Perhaps, he thinks wildly. Perhaps Father had made his way home, perhaps he's inside, perhaps Ryan and Matty are safe—

"Dylan," Matthew says quietly, pulling to a stop beside him. "Have a care. This could be good news, but..."

"Right," Dylan says back. He takes a deep breath and makes for the paddock, jerking his head to have Michael and Matthew follow him. They all enter, quietly if not with great stealth, and Dylan dismounts quickly before looking to the brothers. "Check on the others, please? And be ready to ride. I'm going to check inside."

"I'll go with you," Michael says, bold, sweet Michael, and the look on his face lets Dylan know that arguments will be useless in this case.

"Matthew," Dylan says, turning, but Matthew just nods.

"Michael will go with you," he says. "I'll have a look inside the stable. Take caution, Dylan, and I'll make sure things are ready out here." He hesitates, then adds, "Return quickly, if you can."

Dylan nods and looks to Michael, who has dismounted and walked to his side. He's made his knife available, hanging loosely in its sheath at his side, and Dylan quickly checks to see that Matty's knife is hanging at his side before nodding and beginning the walk from the paddock to the house.

The door is loosely open, which does nothing to settle Dylan's nerves; he pushes it open all the way, thankful that he'd fixed the hinge last week so the noise is minimized. There are clear signs that someone has been here recently; a cabinet is thrown wide, and Dylan notices food on the counter, crumbs on the floor. He motions for Michael to stay behind him; they've played at war before, and they both know the value of surprising an enemy. If whoever's here thinks Dylan is the only one because Michael hung back in the shadows, well, there's no disadvantage in that.

They creep quietly through the lower level of the house and find more evidence of habitation; nothing seems too out of place, but Dylan remembers how things were left before he and Mother went to the McLeods' the evening before, and even if he didn't, the warmth in the great room's hearth would be a giveaway that someone has been here more recently.

"Upstairs," Dylan says quietly as Michael approaches him. Michael nods and Dylan heads for the stairs, knowing that Michael will do his best to tread in Dylan's footsteps, minimizing the likelihood that the intruder will hear more than one person.

The doors are all pulled shut, as they should be, except the entrance to Father's study. Dylan feels his heart speed in his chest; there is information that Dylan sorely needs in there, and the thought of someone else finding it before he can makes his stomach go sour. It's unlikely that the intruder would know how to read it, to decipher the code that Father uses to keep his work records, but that's no matter. Dylan won't be able to glean information from them either, not if he doesn't have access to them.

He signals to Michael, who moves to walk along the wall, and Dylan narrows his eyes and pulls Matty's knife from its sheath. Dylan knows that he won't have much more than the element of surprise on his side, but hopefully he won't need any more than that. He takes a deep breath and moves as quietly as he can to the door. He can't see anyone, but he can hear papers rustling, and it's that more than anything that causes him to burst in. "Show yourself!"

Ryan turns from the desk hurriedly, crying out in pain, and Dylan drops his knife as he takes in his brother's appearance. "Ryan?"

"Dylan," Ryan says, and Dylan can't make out the look on his face at all. It may be a familiar expression, for all Dylan knows, but Ryan's face is bruised, badly swollen in places. Dylan swiftly moves to his side as he hears Michael enter the room. "You've arrived. Where have you been?"

Something in Ryan's expression is off, Dylan can tell immediately. "Looking for you," he replies. "Ryan, are you... are you well?"

"My head pounds," Ryan says quietly. "But there must... there must be a clue in here, Dylan. A clue as to why we were attacked."

"I'll bring Matthew in," Michael says. "Best get him seated, Dylan."

Dylan nods and puts his arm around Ryan's waist. "I'm sure there are clues," he says. "You should sit, though. Shall I send for Master Tavares?"

"No, no, don't worry John," Ryan says, clutching at Dylan's shirt. Dylan can't be sure if it's to implore him or simply for balance, because Ryan sways on his feet as he does it. "He'll fret. He's a fretter, Dylan."

"So I would have assumed," Dylan says, gently steering Ryan towards the door. "I'll hold off on sending for him right now, however. Let's see how you're faring."

Ryan doesn't fight him on leaving the study, but his steps are slow and unsteady. Dylan is still guiding him down the hallway when Michael reappears, Matthew following close behind.

"Ryan," Matthew says, moving to Ryan's other side. He puts his arm beneath Ryan's, taking some of his weight, and it's far easier to move him after that. "What the devil happened to you?"

"Ambush," Ryan says slowly, narrowing his eyes as if he's having trouble recalling. "There were... seven of them. Eight? I think seven."

"Okay," Matthew says. "Were they thieves? What did they want?"

"I don't know," Ryan says, shaking his head a little. It makes him gasp and stumble, and both Dylan and Matthew pull to a halt and wait for him to regain his bearings. "They didn't say anything, didn't demand our valuables." He shudders and closes his eyes. "They surrounded us. They were hitting Father, and then me and Matty, but Father yelled something and the man attacking me became distracted. I struck out at him and ran. I made it to Domino, cut him loose, and struck out."

"You made it home," Dylan murmurs soothingly. He shoots Matthew a look, then nods at Ryan's door. It isn't so far, now. "And you don't know what became of Father? Of Matty?"

"I should have stayed," Ryan says, tone miserable. "I should have protected Matty. He's so young, and I don't know if he got away, or if—"

"Don't worry about Matty," Dylan says firmly. He starts walking Ryan towards his room again. "Your campsite was found, Ryan. There were signs of a fight, but no... we recovered your blankets, Father's satchel, Matty's knife."

"His knife," Ryan says hollowly. "Father told me to watch out for him, and now he's been captured and he's without his knife."

Dylan shoulders the door of Ryan's room open. "I'm going to find them both," he says, voice full of confidence. He hasn't a shred of a clue as to how he's going to pull it off, but he knows that he will. "Are you injured anywhere other than your face?"

"I don't think so," Ryan says, "though it's difficult to think."

"Brain trauma," Matthew murmurs as they get Ryan into the bed, and Dylan recalls suddenly that he's studied with the local doctor. "If he's been hit about the head, it may have caused some swelling. There's nothing for it but rest."

"I don't want to rest," Ryan says stubbornly. "I want to find Father and Matty."

"You'll have to leave that to me, I'm afraid," Dylan says. "You need to rest, and someone must stay and watch after Mother."

Ryan pulls a face; Dylan is certain he means for it to be heroic, but between the bruising on his face and the weakness he's clearly feeling, it falls rather short. "You'll have me here, looking after Mother?"

"Yes," Matthew says, coming to Dylan's aid. "Someone needs to care for her, and she'll want to tend to you." He glances at Dylan, then back at Ryan. "Unless you'd rather stay in our guest quarters. There's room enough for you both there, and our mother will surely entertain yours. Perhaps you might recuperate faster that way."

Dylan wonders that he didn't think of it; having both Ryan and Mother under the McLeods' care is an excellent idea, and Matthew's framing was perfect. Dylan has the utmost certainty that Ryan will accept, once he's had the chance to mull it over, and Judi McLeod is a master of persuasion, so Mother may well already be convinced without ever having been asked.

"I should think Mother should be asked," Ryan says after a moment. "I wouldn't want to decide something without consulting her first."

"Then you should ride with me," Matthew says. "It's a short journey to the estate, and you can speak with her there."

"I'll help Dylan pack a case for you and for your mother," Michael volunteers. "Matthew can ride quickly back here once you've made your decision and let us know whether or not to ride them over to you."

Ryan nods slowly. "Might I have a word alone with Dylan?"

"Surely," Michael says, nodding. "Matthew and I can wait in the hall. Give a shout when you've reached a decision." Matthew nods, and then they disappear into the hall, pulling Ryan's door shut behind them.

"Dylan," Ryan says, and now that the McLeod brothers are out of sight, he sinks back into his bed. "Shall I go? My head pounds. I can't make a decision in this state."

"Then you should go, if only for that," Dylan says gently, trying not to let his worry show. "Matthew was right, Ryan. Lady McLeod can keep Mother occupied, and you can get the rest you need. I can begin the search on my own, and when you're well again, you can join me."

Ryan nods a little, closing his eyes. "Then I should get to the McLeods'," he says. "I feel... dizzy, and there is weakness in every limb, Dylan."

Dylan sits on the bed. "How did you make it home with such injuries?"

Ryan smiles without opening his eyes. "Dumb luck, I'm afraid. Domino knows where he's going, and nobody was expecting me to be able to slip away."

"Okay," Dylan says, nodding a little. "I'm glad you're here, Ry. You'll bring Mother some happiness. She was... the news hit her hard."

It seems to rouse Ryan a bit. "Then we should ride immediately," he says. "To Mother."

Ryan is clearly too weak to ride, so Matthew hitches a horse to the cart that Father keeps in the stables and they help Ryan settle into it. Michael stands by Dylan as they watch Matthew pull away, and as soon as he and Ryan are out of sight, he turns to Dylan. "What are we searching for?"

"Michael," Dylan begins.

"I can help you," Michael says, calm but insistent. "You know something, or you know where to find something, else you wouldn't be so calm, Dylan. Don't act as if I don't know you."

Dylan sighs and nods, turning back towards the house. "I know where to look. There should be a list of names, of people associated with the search Father is conducting. It will give me a place to begin my search."

Michael starts heading for the house. "And we do need to pack for your mother and Ryan," he says. "Shall we do that first?"

"Yes," Dylan says. "I can pack a case for Mother. Can you manage Ryan's?"

"I can," Michael says. "We'll put them in the carriage, and then we can hook Lisette and Arrowhead up to it for the trip back."

Dylan nods. "I'll look for Father's papers while you do," he says. "Not that I don't trust you, Michael, because you know that I do, with my life. This, though... this isn't my secret to tell you, not until..."

Michael steps forward when Dylan falters, and he clasps Dylan's shoulder. "We'll find them," he says, simple but powerful. "I take no offense, Dylan. Pack your mother's case, and I will leave you be until you emerge from your father's study."

Dylan nods, ever grateful for Michael and his steady, solid friendship. They've had their ups and downs, their bouts of anger over the years, but Dylan knows that Michael will always be on his side, just as his brothers would. It's good to have such a friend on any day, but on a day like today, Dylan sends a fervent prayer of thanks to whatever deity sent Michael to him.

He shakes his head and heads for Mother's room. He has a case to pack.

-0-

Dylan can't be certain that he has all of the information he needs; there were fewer clues than he was hoping for in Father's study. The note in the satchel seems to be the only full record of the items in question, and though there were documents with some names on them in the false bottom of Father's drawer, Dylan can only connect three of them with the names on the original list.

"It's a place to start," Michael says when Dylan meets with him. Mother and Ryan are safely settled into the McLeod estate, and Dylan had ridden back and forth earlier to fetch Mother's beloved dog Oscar, so he can even say that they're happily settled. Michael had given Dylan the time and space he'd needed to compare the documents retrieved from Father's study to the note in the satchel, and had only asked Dylan about it after he'd emerged from the room that Lady McLeod had told him to use for his research.

"It is a start," Dylan agrees. "Not much of one, though. I may have to get creative."

Michael hums a bit. "You say that as if you weren't already planning a bit of creativity."

Dylan flashes him a grin. "Perhaps," he allows. "I'll have to find a bit more creativity if these three names don't pan out."

"Do you know the families in question?" Michael asks, settling into an armchair. "Or their whereabouts?"

"They're in London," Dylan says, sighing a little. "I'll have to go out there, see what I can find. They seem to be centrally located, which is at least a small mercy."

"London," Michael echoes. He pulls a bit of a face, and Dylan laughs. "What? As if you like it there any better!"

"I don't," Dylan acknowledges. "I split a fair bit of time between there and Erie, down in Pennsylvania, when Father and I were looking for some stolen books a few years back. London is..."

"It is," Michael agrees when Dylan trails off. "Very much so."

"But that's where the trail leads," Dylan continues. "So that's where I'll go."

Michael sighs. "And I suppose you're going to tell me you're doing it on your own, no arguments?"

"Yes," Dylan says. "I couldn't bear it if you got caught up in this, Michael." He's quiet for a moment. "You saw how they treated Ryan."

"I know," Michael says, leaning forward a little. "And perhaps, with my help, you can avoid that happening to your face as well."

"And perhaps if you stay here, it won't happen to your face," Dylan says evenly. "Michael. I would rather know you were here and safe, keeping my mother and brother safe as well."

"And Oscar," Michael says, leaning back. "My favourite Strome."

"Of course," Dylan says, smiling a little. "Oscar is depending on you, Michael."

"Well, I could never let Oscar down," Michael says, sighing a little. "I don't think I could bear the look on his face."

"He would be disappointed," Dylan agrees. "I'm sure he's very grateful that you'll be staying behind with him."

"I'm going to sneak him treats from the kitchen," Michael says. "Just so you know."

"You'll have to get them past Mother," Dylan says. "And he'll have to be hungry, which might not happen with all the scraps _she'll_ be feeding him."

"I'll do my best," Michael says, breaking into his calm, easygoing smile. "When will you leave?"

"Tomorrow, I think," Dylan says, smile fading a little. "I need to think of a convincing cover story, and I need to make sure I pack all I'll need."

"Let me know if there's anything we can lend you," Michael says. "Truly anything at all, Dylan. We all want to see your father and Matty returned safely."

"I thank you," Dylan says, trying to sound as sincere as he feels. "I'll let you know if I think of anything."

Michael nods. "Do you want to talk through your cover story?"

"Perhaps," Dylan says. He's more used to following whatever story his father has crafted for them; he's only rarely improvised on his own, and he's never planned out anything that has stakes this high before. "I need something that will give me access to the families on my list without raising suspicions."

"Then whatever your cover, you need to include families that aren't on the list as well," Michael says. "Give them no reason to try connecting the dots. Make it something that includes a dozen families, and spread your true targets around."

Dylan blinks at Michael. "One would think you've been raised by my father, not I."

Michael laughs. "I've read some saucy novels," he says. "Perhaps drawing ideas from them is a poor idea, but that one, at least, seems solid enough."

"Saucy novels," Dylan repeats, grinning. "What would your mother say? Or your betrothed?"

"Nathan gave them to me," Michael says without pause. "He knows that I like the adventure, and we both pretend that he isn't reading them for the fanciful romances."

"Of course," Dylan says, amused. Nathan is the perfect match for Michael; both are light where the other is serious, and they complement each other well. Dylan quite likes Nathan, which is good, as the wedding is set for the fall.

"In any case," Michael says, face going more serious. "You know nothing about the families in question? Nothing at all?"

"I know that there should be family members my age," Dylan replies. "Within a year or two, anyway, and I'm hoping to use that to my advantage somehow."

"New in town, looking for a friend?" Michael asks. "Except if they know your father, then they'll know of you, at least somewhat."

"They should," Dylan says, nodding. "I have to prepare for either possibility, but my thought is to not hide it, but also not flaunt it. That way, I can work with whatever I end up facing without getting too caught in the particulars of my purported backstory."

"Smart," Michael says approvingly.

Dylan gives him a small smile. "One of the first tricks my father ever taught me was to lie outright as little as possible," he says. "Omit things, gloss over things, but don't tell an outright falsehood unless it's necessary or extremely simple to keep up. It's easy to get caught in a tangled web of lies."

"And now you sound like those saucy novels," Michael teases. "It does make sense; it's just a little funny to hear from you, I suppose."

Dylan frowns a little. "Why's that?"

"You're one of the most honest people I know," Michael says, looking at him straight on. "I've known you for long enough to know when you're pulling my leg, Dylan, and you so very rarely even try."

It brings a smile to Dylan's face. "I do my best not to lie in my personal life," he says. "I am glad that it hasn't gone unnoticed."

Michael smiles back at him. "I did notice you lying about liking the idea of my Ryan courting your Matthew," he teases. "What, not so anxious to have us as brothers?"

Dylan laughs. "More like I'm afraid they'll destroy each other in some way," he says, as he always does when someone brings the idea up. He sobers quickly, though, because he has no idea what shape Matty's in right now, or if he'll even be an option for Michael's Ryan going forward. "I suppose I'll have to find him so they can work it out on their own."

"A good idea," Michael agrees. "And you're positive that I can't convince you to let me join in your search?"

"Michael," Dylan says, sighing.

"I know, I know," Michael says, holding his hands up. "It never hurts to ask, though."

"It certainly doesn't," Dylan agrees. "Still no, I'm afraid."

"Then I'll just have to stay here with Oscar and remind myself why he's my favourite Strome," Michael says, sighing in an exaggerated fashion as he leans against the back of his chair.

"That's the spirit," Dylan says, forcing cheer that he doesn't really feel into his voice. It makes Michael laugh, though, so Dylan will take it happily.

-0-

London is every bit as miserable as Dylan recalls. It's probably not a bad place, if he's being truly honest with himself, but all of his experiences here have been work-related in some sense, and coming here again as the first step in his search for Father and Matty isn't endearing the place to Dylan any further.

The woman at the tavern is nice enough, at least, and doesn't bat an eye when Dylan asks for a room without knowing when he'll be leaving. A few people come up to her while he's making his arrangements, so Dylan feels confident enough to let part of his plan slip to her; she seems the sort who will be able to pass information around, or at least point him in the right direction to find some of the people he's looking for.

"Mrs. Mercer," Dylan says, leaning in a little. "I don't suppose you know the location of a reputable gentleman's club in the area? I'm..." He trails off purposely and glances away, playing at embarrassed, then looks back as if gathering his courage. "I'm looking to introduce myself around town, and that seemed a good place to begin."

Mrs. Mercer looks at him appraisingly, and Dylan holds her gaze for a moment before looking away and down again. He keeps his gaze there until she chuckles a little, warm and fond.

"I can point you in the right direction," she says. "In fact, my nephew frequents just such an establishment. If you can clean yourself up well enough, he'll stop by here on his way in about an hour, I'd say."

"Oh, I'd appreciate it if you could make an introduction for me," Dylan says, pouring on the eagerness. "Might I ask his name, so I don't seem a fool upon meeting him?"

"Christian. Unless you'll be standing on ceremony, in which case he'll be Master Dvorak," she says, smiling at him. Dylan feels a little bad about pulling the wool over her eyes, but he tells himself that it's for a good cause. "He's about your age, I'd think, or perhaps a bit older. You'll need to clean the travelling dust from your hair, so if you want to meet up with him tonight, you'd best get moving."

"I will," Dylan says, grabbing his satchel and heading for the staircase. "My thanks, Mrs. Mercer."

"I'm glad to help a young man in need," she says, waving him up the stairs. "Yell if you need anything, Master Strome."

Dylan nods as he walks up the stairs. At least, he thinks wryly, he's back to being Master Strome, what with Ryan's reappearance. Not that it's common knowledge, not yet, but then again, neither is Father's disappearance. He'd be Master Strome here either way.

The room is small but well-kept, and Dylan finds the lock easy to work but strong, durable. He's not worried about being found out, not yet, but a little paranoia goes a long way when you're planning to work in the shadows. Dylan goes to work unpacking some of his belongings; the stable boy had brought his trunk up earlier, and it's easy enough to hang his clothing in the armoire, to toss his satchel carelessly to the floor beside the dressing table. Dylan surveys his work; it looks like a young nobleman unpacked without a care, which suits him just fine. It's not any more difficult for him to lift the corner of the mattress, slice an opening near the seam, and put the carefully-rolled note from Father's satchel into the hole. Dylan's own notes are on the back, beneath Father's, but he doesn't need it now; he knows his plans for the next few days well enough, and he shouldn't need to consult the note for quite a while, so he pulls his mending kit from his satchel and quickly sews the seam shut again.

Unpacking taken care of, Dylan turns to washing and dressing for the evening. It's quick work to clean his face and pour water through his hair, and the towel laid out for him does its job well enough. Dylan changes into something clean, presentable, and a few steps below his nicer things, then slicks his hair back. His reflection looks both familiar and not; he's used to dressing much more simply than this when he's with Father, and fancier when he's with Mother. This suits his cover story, though, so Dylan nods and heads back downstairs to wait for Mrs. Mercer's nephew.

Christian arrives without fanfare, which makes Dylan take a liking to him immediately. He's a bit shorter than Dylan, with fair hair and features, and something about him rings something in Dylan's memory, though he can't immediately place what.

"I believe we've met before," Christian says after Mrs. Mercer has made the introduction. "Have you been around London before? Not recently, I don't think, but perhaps with your father?"

"I have," Dylan says, and the puzzle unlocks in his head. "He found a key for your parents, if I remember correctly."

"He did," Christian confirms, smile bright. "Grandfather's trunk key was lost, and Father couldn't bear to break it apart. As it turns out, it contained nothing of value even though my uncle was certain that it would, so your father finding the key likely saved us a family feud."

Dylan laughs. "Always glad to be of service."

"I'll bet," Christian says easily. He stands and heads for the door of the tavern, gesturing for Dylan to follow, so he does. "Aunt Josephine said that you were in town and looking to make some friends. I'll be happy to introduce you to a few of mine if you want."

"I'd appreciate it," Dylan says. He doesn't have to fake being grateful; having an introduction will make his true purpose a lot easier. It is time to begin laying out his story, though. "I, ah. I feel that I should be upfront with you about my intentions, as I don't want to betray any trust we're building between us."

Christian slows to a stop. "And what would those intentions be?"

Dylan looks over Christian's shoulder, focusing on the shopfront behind him. He thinks about his story, thinks about the feelings he'd have if he was actually here on this errand, and allows the humiliation to rise to his face. "My family is... things aren't going as well as they once were," he says carefully. "My older brother is betrothed, and it's a wonderful match for him, but I'm... let's say I've been found wanting."

"Ah," Christian says. He doesn't say more, but his face is full of sympathy. "So you've been sent off to see what you can see?"

Dylan laughs a little. "Well, not precisely. My father's latest job has been..." He pauses, then sighs. "He's gone missing, Christian, and my younger brother with him. We're well provided for at this time, but I've taken stock of what we have and what we'll need, and..."

"And those needs will be easier to meet if you can manage to make a match," Christian finishes for him, just as Dylan was hoping he would.

"I don't want to take advantage," Dylan says hastily. "I'm not that kind of person, truly. I'm hoping being upfront with you about my situation convinces you of this, but I wouldn't be surprised if you'd rather not introduce me to your friends after all, now that you know."

"Dylan," Christian says, putting a hand on Dylan's shoulder. "I understand. You've fallen on hard times, and there's no shame to be found in wanting to help your family. I'll be happy to introduce you to some people, and I pray they can help you find your father and brother. All I ask in return is that you tell anyone you connect with what you've told me, so they can make their own decisions."

"I promise," Dylan says seriously. It's actually part of his plan; he's going to be as upfront as possible with the "searching for a suitable partner" story in the hopes that it will distract his targets from noticing him looking into their more private affairs. He has no idea what the names on his father's list could mean; the families could have hired him, or they could be involved in the scheme, or they could be pawns in a larger game. Until he knows, Dylan is going to hide that part of the truth from everyone he speaks with. "I owe you my thanks, Christian, truly."

Christian smiles at him. "It's no bother at all. Your family once did me a service, and I'm happy to return the favour."

"It was hardly a favour, knowing my father," Dylan says easily, falling into step with Christian as they start walking again. "I'm sure your family paid him well for it."

"Well, consider this a bonus, then," Christian replies. "A bit extra, since your father did help my family escape utter war."

Dylan laughs. "Well, then, I appreciate it."

"Tell me about who you'd like to approach," Christian says. "We have a ten minute walk ahead of us, and I can try to introduce you to people more suited to you at the start if I have an inkling."

The problem here, Dylan thinks, is that he knows precisely nothing about the people he's trying to meet, save for their family names and that they're wealthy. He can't exactly ask Christian to introduce him to his wealthier friends, not without raising suspicion, so he hums a little in thought and hopes he can draw more information out of Christian. "I feel I'm not in a position to be terribly choosy," he says after a moment. "But perhaps you can tell me about some of your friends, and I can let you know whether or not it seems we'd be a good match?"

"You're a smart fellow," Christian says approvingly. "Well, I think they're all good men, else I wouldn't spend my time around them, but they do all have their own personalities."

"Of course," Dylan says encouragingly. "I'd expect nothing less."

"And you'd prefer gentleman callers?" Christian asks, polite but vague, and Dylan appreciates it; discussing one's preferences out in the open isn't the kind of dangerous it was in his grandfather's day, but Dylan still knows he should keep his cards close to his vest in an unfamiliar place without true friends around.

Still, though, he's not sure who he's here to meet; he's armed only with three surnames, and for all he knows, he might be looking to meet a young lady. Therefore, it's no hardship for him to hum a little. "I find that I prefer gentlemen, yes," he says, "but I'd be quite happy if you had any lady friends who would deem it acceptable to meet with me."

Christian laughs. "Keeping your options open?"

Dylan spreads his hands. "Beggars can't be choosers and all that. I can find attractive things about very nearly anyone, Christian, and I'm not going to limit myself unnecessarily, even if people tend to think it odd to not have a preference for such things." 

"Well said," Christian replies. "Well, I can tell you the people most likely to be around tonight, and we can figure things out further from there if needs must."

"You're a prince among men," Dylan says, listening as Christian begins describing his friends.

By the time they arrive at the club, Dylan has identified two of his targets: Victor Mete is apparently somewhat serious and hard to draw into conversation, but Matthew Tkachuk seems to be gregarious and easy to talk with. It's enough for a start, anyway, so Dylan asks if Christian wouldn't mind introducing him to Tkachuk. He'll start with the easier mark, then float around a bit, then see if he can sit down with Mete, and if he has no further ideas upon leaving the club at the end of the night, he'll ask if Christian would ask some of his family's female friends if they'd consider meeting him. It's a decent plan, and at least enough of one to get started.

"Fellows," Christian says as they walk in. His voice seems larger than it had outside, and most of the men gathered in the room turn to him immediately. Christian claps a hand on Dylan's shoulder. "This is Dylan Strome, son of the Viscount of Lorne Park. His family once did mine a great favour, so when he asked to be introduced around town, I gladly volunteered." It's a bit of an exaggeration, but Dylan smiles anyway, nodding his head. "I promise he's got interesting stories, so please feel free to ask about them."

Dylan laughs and tugs a little at the sleeves of his coat. He does look shabby compared to the rest of the men in the club, which is perfect; it'll lend credence to his story. "My father takes odd jobs to find things for people," he offers to the room at large. "I've been helping him with it since I was a child. I've certainly had some... interesting experiences."

"Strome, you said?" a young man with a shock of curly red hair pipes up. "I believe your father has found something of my family's, as well. Come, sit."

"That's Tkachuk," Christian says under his breath. "He's quite talkative, so if you find yourself overwhelmed, do give me a signal and I'll come to your rescue."

"Thank you. You're quite kind," Dylan says, laughing a little as he walks away.

-0-

Tkachuk is indeed talkative, but he's also quite a good listener, and he works to draw story after story from Dylan. Other people come and go, including Mete, who does indeed seem as reticent as Christian had made him seem. He'll be a project for another night, Dylan decides as Mete slips away. Better to spread out his true targets, just as Michael had suggested, so he excuses himself from Tkachuk's side after nearly an hour and does his best to mingle. It's not his strong suit, he'll be the first to admit, but most of the men present seem to find his lack of perfect manners somehow charming, so Dylan gets by.

He's fairly sure that Tkachuk doesn't know anything himself, but it might be worth getting to know him more anyway, Dylan muses as a man introduced to him only as Pu tells him a rather animated story about his first time ice skating. It sounds incredibly amusing, and Dylan would actually love to hear it outside of his current job, but right now he's barely paying attention as he thinks about his strategies. Tkachuk has a younger brother who sounds like he might be a little more cognizant of the family's goings-on, and though the Tkachuk patriarch sounds truly impressive in Matthew's stories, Dylan's certain that he'd be able to glean something from him if he knows it, if only by trading on stories of retrieving the family's beloved horses a handful of years back.

"Oh," Pu says, breaking off mid-sentence, and Dylan focuses back on him. He's smiling widely at someone behind Dylan. "What fortune! Dylan, you must meet Lord Marner. He's a wonderful friend."

"I'd love to," Dylan says, turning as his mind churns. The final name on his list was Marner, but surely Lord Marner would be older than the man standing and chatting with Christian. He's slight, with dark hair and striking eyes, and when he smiles at something Christian says, Dylan feels his breath catch a little.

"Come, follow me," Pu says, stepping past Dylan.

Dylan grabs for his elbow, then immediately releases it when Pu whirls around. "I'm sorry, I meant no offense," Dylan says, holding his hands up. "It's just—I don't want to be rude, but shouldn't a man of his age be Master Marner?"

Pu's face goes solemn. "It's an interesting story," he says quietly. "I won't get into the details, as they're somewhat private, but Mitchell's parents went back to England and left him in his brother's care a decade ago. Christopher disappeared about two years ago, now, which leaves Mitchell as the reigning Lord Marner, Earl of London." Pu's face brightens a little. "He doesn't make it out much, but it's fortunate that he's here tonight. I have the feeling that you'll get along rather well."

"I do hope so," Dylan murmurs, and Pu laughs.

"If it helps," Pu says slyly, elbowing Dylan lightly in the ribs, "I believe he'd find you easy on the eyes."

The blush on Dylan's cheeks this time doesn't have to be forced from anywhere, but Pu just laughs again and leads Dylan over towards Christian and Marner. "Mitchell! It's been an age!"

"Clifford," Marner says, turning towards them, and oh, Dylan will have to watch himself carefully. "And this is..."

"The very man I was telling you about," Christian interjects, and Dylan will be forever grateful to him, honestly. "Dylan Strome of Lorne Park, please meet Mitchell Marner, Earl of London."

"Lord Marner," Dylan says, extending his hand. "A pleasure."

"A pleasure indeed," Marner says, shaking Dylan's hand firmly. "Please, call me Mitchell. Lord Marner is..." His face twists slightly before smoothing out. "Well, it's my title, but I don't feel any need to be addressed that way."

"Mitchell, then," Dylan says, dropping his hand. "Forgive me; I've heard two things about you from Pu, but I've no earthly idea who you are beyond that."

Mitchell laughs. "A good thing, to be sure," he says. "This way we're on equal footing, and we can simply... get to know each other."

Dylan's certain he isn't imagining the way Mitchell is looking at him, the gleam in his eyes, the flirtatious tone in his voice. It suits his needs perfectly, but Dylan won't deny to himself that it suits him well personally, too.

"I'd like that," Dylan says, smiling, watching the way it makes Mitchell's smile widen in response. He'll need to tread very, very carefully here.

"Wonderful," Mitchell says. He nods his head towards the back corner of the room; there's a table there with two big, overstuffed chairs by its side. It's far enough away from the din of the room at large to feel private, and Dylan almost can't believe his luck as Mitchell leads the way. He'll test the waters first, to be sure, but this could be his chance to get some real information about what, exactly, his father had been doing when he and Matty were taken.

"So," Dylan says as they sit. "I'm sure Christian told you my background. Might I learn a bit of yours?"

"First," Mitchell says, leaning towards him slightly. "Please, call me Mitch. Mitchell is... rather formal, wouldn't you say?"

Oh, but he's smooth, Dylan thinks. He can't help smiling in response. "Certainly, if you're granting me the honour," he replies, and he can see how it hits and sinks in, that he's recognised the game they're playing and is willing to engage.

"I am indeed," Mitch says, leaning back in his seat. "I thought I recognised your name when Christian mentioned it to me. Are you related to Christopher Strome, the antiquities hunter?"

"My father," Dylan says, letting the smile on his face slip a little. "He's gone missing, I'm afraid, so if you need something found, you'll have to wait until he finds himself."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Mitch says, and he's either altogether too clever an actor or he actually didn't know, because his sympathy seems genuine. "How long has he been missing?"

"Not quite a week," Dylan says. "My brothers were both with him, and only my older brother has returned. He's in rough shape, and has no idea who attacked them or what they wanted."

Mitch blows out a breath. "And you have no idea what he was hunting down?"

"I wasn't with him on the job," Dylan says. It's the truth, if not the whole truth, and it gives Dylan the space he needs to ask questions without revealing what he knows. "As such, I wasn't made privy to the details."

"I'm sorry," Mitch says again. "I know what it's like to have a loved one disappear. I truly hope your father and brother turn up safe and sound very soon."

"Thank you," Dylan says. "I worry that it won't be the case, but I appreciate your optimism."

Mitch sighs. "My brother went searching for something once," he says. It's rather cryptic, but Dylan leans forward, encouraging. "I've no idea if he found it and ran off, or if someone else found him, or..."

"I'm sorry, too," Dylan says. "Pu mentioned that your parents were back in England. That must have been terribly difficult for you."

Mitch smiles briefly. "It was," he agrees. "But enough about the past. What brings you to London?"

Dylan recalls the blush he'd had before, wills it to rise in his cheeks again. "My current situation, actually," he says. "I'm quite worried about the state of my family's finances. My older brother will be well set with his fiancé, but as for my mother and I..."

"So you're looking to find yourself a husband," Mitch says. "Bold of you to admit that."

Dylan shrugs. "I'm not here to make enemies of anyone, nor to trick anyone into anything." He coughs a little. "And, for the record, I'd be fine with finding a wife, too. I just happened across Christian, and he offered to introduce me around, provided I was honest with anyone who showed any interest."

"Christian is a good man," Mitch says, but he's tilting his head now, still staring at Dylan. "Your father didn't prepare for this?"

He had, actually, and it's quite an astute question to ask. Luckily, Dylan knows exactly how to answer it—or, rather, how not to answer it. "We would be fine, for a time," he says. It's not untrue. "But with Ryan taking the title with him to his new household, I worry. More about my mother, honestly, than myself."

Mitch nods slowly. "And your brother," he says. "Who is he set to marry?"

"The heir to the Earl of Oakville," Dylan says promptly. "He's an honourable man, and he would likely care for Mother, which would leave me to look after myself. And it's not that I'm unwilling to; I just can't imagine myself leaving my mother in the care of someone I don't know, not if I have the chance to provide for her myself in my father's absence."

Mitch's smile is small, but it seems real. "I know John Tavares," he says. "He is, indeed, an honourable man. It seems as if this is an occasion where like knows like, as you seem to have honourable intentions yourself."

"I'm trying to do my best," Dylan says, glancing away. "I can only hope that my being so forthright about my intentions hasn't soured your opinion of me."

"Not at all," Mitch says easily. "I appreciate your honesty, Dylan, truly."

Dylan's stomach does something indescribable when he looks back up to find Mitch smiling warmly at him. "I'm glad to hear it," he replies, smiling back. "Now that you know my story, I'd love to hear about yours, if you're willing to share it."

"I am indeed," Mitch says, smile still in place. "What would you like to know?"

-0-

Dylan leaves the gathering with far more than he expected to. He'd managed to meet all three of his targets, yes, but more than that, he and Mitch had set a time to meet tomorrow to get further acquainted. Dylan knows that he'll have to be careful, have to truly watch himself, because there's a part of him that knows he'll never find another match like this, and he'll have to make sure he doesn't let himself fall for the ruse he's setting up. It's very, very possible that Mitch knows something, or that his brother's disappearance is connected to Father and Matty's disappearance. It's going to be difficult, digging around without becoming too involved. He'd rather not end up hurting Mitch when all is said and done, and that's already deeper than he wanted to be.

Mrs. Mercer isn't in the tavern when Dylan returns; he knows it's late, but he's a little shocked to find that he and Mitch had talked until far past eleven o'clock. He's an interesting man, quick and funny, and his smile is arresting.

Dylan hopes he's not in as much trouble with this as he thinks he might be.

There's no need to check his list, so Dylan doesn't bother lifting the mattress when he returns to his room. He'd be able to tell if someone had been in his room, and there's no reason to fuss with anything at this point, so he sits at the washing table and does his best to think.

Mete might know something, or he might not; Dylan hadn't spoken with him enough to really have any idea. It's fine, truly; he can always go back if nothing else pans out. Tkachuk likely doesn't know anything himself, but Dylan had made good progress on becoming trustworthy enough to introduce to the family, so that's also an angle he can play if he needs to.

Mitch, though.

Dylan tries to keep his thoughts professional. Mitch is an excellent lead; not only is he interested in Dylan's cover, but he's the head of his household, so it's entirely possible that he knows quite a bit about whatever Father is chasing. He doesn't trust Dylan fully, not yet, but that's a more promising sign than it sounds; Dylan would think him more a fool if he did at this point. He'd been more than willing to set up plans for them to talk further, away from prying eyes and ears, and while a walk through the city garden isn't exactly private quarters, it's more than good enough for Dylan to angle towards that. He'd ideally like to find out more about Mitch's family situation, but that certainly won't happen tomorrow. He'll have to see if he can gain access to the hall of records in town, but first...

Well, Dylan thinks, from a practical standpoint, first comes sleep. Tomorrow morning he's planning to spend in the tavern, seeing what he can overhear there, and then Mitch will arrive in the early afternoon to walk through the gardens with him.

Dylan tries not to feel too excited by the prospect as he lays himself in bed, but he's not certain he succeeds.

-0-

The morning in the tavern is interesting, if not entirely informative; Dylan has the feeling that he could find out some relevant information if he sat there for long enough, but by the time Mitch arrives just after lunch, all he's learned is the latest gossip surrounding the daughter of a local baron and her sudden engagement to someone far below her station. Interesting, to be sure, but not relevant to Dylan's case in the least.

"Dylan," Mitch says as he walks in, and to Dylan's dismay if not his surprise, he's no less attractive in the daylight. "How was your morning? Did you want to go up to your room for anything before we left?"

Dylan laughs. "I had a pleasant morning, thanks, and I'm ready to set out if you are."

"Good, great," Mitch says, smiling. It's somewhat of a constant state of being with him, Dylan is coming to learn, and it suits him well. "The gardens aren't far."

"Wonderful," Dylan says. He hesitates as he stands, unsure if he's expected to offer his arm; people have whispered that he's spent too much time in the woods with his father to know how to behave in polite company, and Dylan mostly scoffs at them, but in this moment he can't help but feel like they might have a point.

Luckily, Mitch either doesn't notice Dylan's sudden fit of awkwardness or he chooses to ignore it fully, because he just smiles and gestures towards the door. "Let's go, then."

Dylan follows him out the door, then settles in to walk beside him down the road. "How was your night?" he asks.

"I slept well," Mitch says. "But shouldn't I be asking you that, since you're the one travelling?"

"I also slept well," Dylan says. "Better than I thought I would, honestly."

"It was all the wonderful conversation," Mitch replies, bumping their shoulders together lightly. "It tires the mind out, and then you have no issue falling asleep."

"Funny, that's not the activity I'm told tires people out," Dylan says, and then has the distinct pleasure of watching Mitch's cheeks go pink. "Forgive me if that was—"

"Amusing, and also true," Mitch cuts in. "I've already learned that you're rather forward, Dylan. I probably should have realised that you'd go for that particular brand of humour. I'm not offended, if that was your concern."

"It was," Dylan admits. "My apologies anyway, Mitch. People have said I might as well have been raised by wolves, and while that's a slight on my mother that I simply won't stand for, it might not be far off when it comes to what my father taught me."

Mitch hums a bit as they turn, and suddenly they're in a nicely manicured garden, hedges neatly trimmed around them. "Have people honestly said that?"

Dylan laughs a little. "There's a reason I'm twenty and not yet betrothed, Mitch. I'm unmarriageable."

It makes Mitch stop walking. "People have said _that?_ "

"Well, yes," Dylan says, turning. He's shocked to see how furious Mitch looks. "You're angry? Mitch, they're only—"

"You have no marriage prospects," Mitch says bluntly. "You just said so yourself, and you're here, a day's ride from your home, because this is how far you had to travel to find people without these preconceived notions of you. Whatever defense you were about to give them, Dylan, please don't."

Dylan feels himself blink, eyes wide. He's heard Michael say similar things, certainly, but Michael is his dearest friend, and they've known each other their entire lives. To hear Mitch defend him so passionately less than a day after first meeting him... well. The stirring in Dylan's stomach erupts again, and he can't find it within himself to quiet it.

"Anyway," Mitch says. There's colour in his face as he glances away, which Dylan finds entirely too charming. "If I thought you were unmarriageable, I wouldn't have come out with you today, would I?"

"I suppose not," Dylan says, perhaps a little too softly. "I—thank you, Mitch. That was quite kind."

"They've no right to say that," Mitch says, looking back at Dylan. "I'll wager that the lot of them haven't had the ghost of a conversation with you. Not knowing every single one of the outdated courtly manners is hardly a condemnation. You speak well—"

"I speak too fast," Dylan objects. He hadn't needed anyone to tell him that, though plenty of people have felt the need to inform him of it anyway.

"But it's intelligent, quick, and well-informed," Mitch counters. "And I honestly don't care that you don't know when to offer your hand and when to bow and all that nonsense. I have no idea how I would find food if I was ever stranded in the woods, and which of those do you think is the more useful life skill to have?"

"Mitch," Dylan says quietly.

"I've half a mind to ask for your hand just to spite those people," Mitch says vehemently.

Dylan laughs, a small, genuine thing. It surprises him a bit. "That certainly would shock them."

"It likely would," Mitch replies, and his voice is suddenly rueful, quieter. "You certainly don't need me jumping to your defense, though. I'm sorry they've said such things about you, and I'm sorry I reacted so strongly."

"It was nice to hear," Dylan says gently. "And should things move in that direction, I know I'll have the staunchest support in my corner, no matter what."

"You will," Mitch says firmly. "Now that I've made a total ass out of myself, though, shall we turn to lighter topics?"

"I'd certainly like to," Dylan says. "I have one question, though."

"I'll do my best to answer," Mitch replies.

Dylan hums a little. "Was I supposed to offer my arm, or were you just being polite when I didn't?"

Mitch's laughter rings through the garden around them, and it's better than any real answer he could've given.

-0-

The hall of records proves uneventful; there's nothing in there to indicate anything more than Pu had told Dylan at the start of all this. Dylan is hesitant to ask around, but also hesitant to ask Mitch, who has started offering his arm with a teasing smile every time they meet. It's a lovely courtship, truly, and Dylan's heart is heavy with the fact that it's built upon lies. He likes Mitch a lot, and he could easily see himself growing to love him with very little effort.

"Would you," Mitch says slowly one afternoon, two weeks after their first meeting. "Would you consider supper with me tonight, in my home?"

Dylan wants badly to say no, to say yes, to tell Mitch everything, but he forces himself to quickly think about what the Dylan he's presented to Mitch would do. "I would be honoured," he says, and he's a bit taken aback by how blurred the lines have become between who he truly is and the facade he's presenting. He needs to find the information he needs fast and leave before he finds himself actually wanting to marry Mitch.

Or before he actually goes through with it, because if he's being quite honest with himself, he knows he'd accept if Mitch asked for his hand.

Mitch's brilliant smile is the reason Dylan should've said no, but also the reason he said yes. His head is a confounded mess of contradictions, but he smiles back at Mitch anyway as Mitch asks after his preferences. He defers to Mitch on most of the decision-making, which Mitch seems to find amusing for some reason, but Dylan honestly doesn't have enough experience with wine to have a favourite.

"I'll be happy with whatever meal comes from the kitchen," Dylan finally says. "It's not the food I'm looking forward to, Mitch."

"Oh," Mitch says, clearly startled. It only lasts a moment, though, and then he's smiling at Dylan again, the fullest, brightest thing that Dylan has ever seen. "Well, I must admit: as much as I enjoy the meals that our cook produces, I find myself looking forward to the company more as well."

"Then we're in the same frame of mind," Dylan says. "I've heard that's preferable."

"It does seem to be," Mitch agrees. He laughs a little, then sighs. "Apologies for turning maudlin, but I keep thinking of how much Chris would enjoy your company."

Dylan has noticed, over the past two weeks, that Mitch refers to his brother as if he's merely out of town, away on a trip instead of missing, or worse. He finds himself thinking the same about his own family, though, so it's not as if he has any room to bring judgment. He likely wouldn't, anyway. "I hope I get the chance to meet him someday," he finally says, and it's the absolute truth.

"I hope you do as well," Mitch says. "It's odd. I can't imagine him coming back, but I also can't imagine him not. Does that make any sense at all?"

"I understand," Dylan says. "You've spent so long without him, and you've made your own way in that time, but he's still your brother."

"Exactly that," Mitch says, giving him a small smile. "More of a want and less of a need, I suppose, which is strange in its own right."

Dylan wants to embrace him, to draw him in and offer comfort, but he restrains himself. He squeezes Mitch's hand instead. "Whatever you're feeling, it's understandable. Missing someone is strange and time-consuming and presents itself in different ways at different times."

"Spoken like a man who's missed someone for a great length of time," Mitch observes. "But your father and brother have only been gone three weeks."

"They have," Dylan agrees. "There have been a lot of highs and lows during that time, though. I can only imagine how it would be if it was longer."

"Not fun," Mitch says wryly, and Dylan laughs a little.

"I hope to not have to find out," he says, glancing away. "And I hope that Chris returns, as well, for your sake."

"You're a good person, Dylan Strome," Mitch says, squeezing his hand.

Dylan smiles back and tries not to think of himself as the _worst_ sort of person.

-0-

Supper goes well; Dylan knows that the food is good and the wine is enjoyable, but mostly he focuses on Mitch. He's loose and happy in his own home, which isn't altogether surprising; Dylan enjoys it immensely, which isn't surprising, either. They laugh a lot as they eat, and Dylan readily accepts when Mitch asks if he wants to sit in the parlor and continue their conversation.

It's during a lull in their talking that Dylan steers the conversation more towards what he needs to know. "I understand if you'd rather not say," he says, aiming for a gentle tone. "But what happened with your family?"

Mitch sighs a little, looking into the fire. He doesn't say anything for a moment, but Dylan waits; if he doesn't want to say, he'll tell Dylan exactly that. "I've sworn to never tell anyone outside the family about this," he finally says.

"I understand," Dylan says immediately. He'll find another way to figure it out, he'll—

"Dylan," Mitch says, smiling at him. "I'd like to tell you."

"Even though I'm not family?" Dylan asks. His heart beats a little more quickly in his chest.

Mitch's smile widens. "Well," he says. "I'd normally talk to your father about asking for your hand, but as he's currently unavailable, I suppose I'll just have to ask you for it."

This is taking everything far, far further than Dylan had ever planned, but he feels how wide the smile on his face is, the joy in his heart, and he can't do anything but gasp out "Of course, yes, of course." He doesn't know how he'll make it work, he thinks wildly, but he will somehow; he'll make it all work out.

Somehow Mitch manages to smile even more widely. "You're sure? I know it's sudden, but I also know your situation is somewhat time-sensitive, and I don't want you to make a rash decision just because of the timing."

Dylan laughs a little and ignores the part of his mind telling him to come clean now, to tell Mitch everything and pray he still wants Dylan. "Tell me you don't feel as if this would have happened naturally in due time," he says instead. "Tell me you don't feel as though we were somehow fated to end up here one way or another."

"I can't tell you that at all," Mitch says. He stands from his chair and makes his way over to where Dylan is seated, holding out his hand. "Marry me?"

Dylan stands and takes Mitch's hand in both of his own. "Absolutely."

"Oh, good," Mitch says, and if Dylan thought his smile was brilliant before, now it's like direct exposure to the sun, too bright to look at directly but far too beautiful to look away. "I wasn't sure what I'd do if you said no. Ask again tomorrow, probably."

"You still could, if you wanted to," Dylan offers. "I'll say yes again, which might spoil the surprise."

Mitch laughs. "That might be better for my emotional well-being," he says. "Though I was thinking we might discuss actual plans tomorrow, if it's not too soon. I want you to be secure in this, Dylan, and I want to make sure you have the support you need for your mother in place." He hesitates a little. "And I know you must want to search for your father and brother, as well. I don't know what help I could be with that, but I'll provide it, if you only tell me what it is you need."

"Mitch," Dylan breathes out. His chest feels too full, heart about to burst with everything he's feeling right now. "May I kiss you?"

"Please," Mitch says, and they're leaning into each other at the same time, lips barely brushing before Dylan pulls back a little. They breathe together for a moment, and then Mitch puts his hand on Dylan's hip and Dylan leans back in, kisses Mitch more fiercely, more meaningfully. It's as if everything he's been feeling, everything he's been trying to tell himself not to feel, rushes to the surface, and it's all Dylan can do to keep himself from pushing further, pushing for more. They've been engaged for a handful of minutes; this is already far past the bounds of propriety, but then again, nothing about this arrangement would be seen as proper, and there's only so far Dylan would care about appearances anyway.

Mitch pulls back and tips his head forward, and Dylan copies him, resting their foreheads together. Mitch's hand tightens briefly on his hip, and Dylan revels in it, the feeling of being close and held and desired so clearly. "Dylan," Mitch says, and his voice is lower, rougher, and it sends a shiver down Dylan's spine. "We should stop."

"Should we?" Dylan murmurs.

"We should," Mitch says firmly. He closes his eyes, then, and Dylan can clearly see the way his lashes fall against his skin, dark against bright; it's mesmerising in a way that Dylan could never have anticipated. Mitch opens his eyes again. "I don't want to, though."

"If you don't want to and I don't want to, then who's to tell us no?" Dylan asks. His heart is beating almost painfully in his chest, but the last thing he wants is to leave, to go back to Mrs. Mercer's tavern and spend the night thinking about what he could be sharing with Mitch, the man he's agreed to marry.

"You know if you stay, people will talk," Mitch warns. "And you know that if you stay, I'm asking you to bed with me. Please also know that if you choose to leave tonight, I won't hold it against you. Too many choices have been taken from you already; I won't make our marriage dependent on this or any other thing."

Dylan has to lean in to kiss him for that; he wouldn't be able to stop himself if he tried, and he has no reason to even try. Mitch kisses him back with the same level of passion that Dylan feels, and if he hadn't already made up his mind, this would do it for him.

He pulls back so he can look Mitch in the eyes, so he can take in Mitch's full reaction. "Take me to bed," he says softly, and the look on Mitch's face, the wonder and joy and hunger, make something in Dylan's stomach twist with anticipation.

Mitch takes his hand and leads him upstairs without another word.

-0-

Dylan blinks his eyes open and breathes in deeply, taking stock of himself. The bed he's in is warm and comfortable; the room is decorated tastefully but extravagantly. There's a strong arm wrapped around his waist, and behind him is—

"Good morning," Mitch says, pressing a kiss to the back of Dylan's neck. "Did you sleep well?"

Behind him is Mitch, who Dylan had agreed to marry, who took him to bed and whispered to him sweetly while working magic with his hands on Dylan's body, who curled up behind him and kissed his shoulder and vowed to him that they would work together to find their missing family members.

Who Dylan has been lying to this entire time.

"I slept well," he manages, turning in Mitch's arms. "And you?"

"I did, as well," Mitch says, smiling. His hair is in a complete state of disarray, but he's still one of the most handsome men Dylan has ever met. He reaches up and toys with the ends of Dylan's hair. "Your hair curls."

Dylan laughs a little. "I generally slick it down, but yes. This is close to its natural state."

"I quite like it," Mitch murmurs. He leans in to brush a quick kiss against Dylan's mouth, then pulls back. "Do you have a favourite breakfast? Our cook—her name is Jennifer; I'll introduce you—she makes marvelous eggs of all types, and her pancakes are simply divine."

Dylan smiles and pushes down the feelings swirling in his stomach. "I love pancakes," he says. "I'd be happy to heap praise upon her if she'd agree to make them."

"I've a friend in the Western Territory who has sent some of the best maple syrup I've ever tasted," Mitch says. "I generally hoard it, but I'm happy to share it with you."

"What's mine is yours," Dylan says, a half-remembered sweet nothing that his father had said to his mother ages ago, and it makes a smile bloom across Mitch's face.

"And mine is yours," he says. "Even my maple syrup."

Dylan laughs and forces himself to roll away. "Let's get ready to face the day, then," he says. "I look forward to trying your favourite syrup."

Mitch laughs, and Dylan makes the mistake of turning back towards him. He's still in bed, the sheets pooled around his waist, and Dylan can see the evidence of the night they shared on Mitch's body. His face heats, and Mitch grins at him, clearly unperturbed by the markings. "You could come back to bed," he offers. "I think we could make it worthwhile."

It's tempting, so tempting, and Dylan is just about to give in when his stomach grumbles. He and Mitch both laugh, and Dylan smiles a little ruefully. "Perhaps later," he suggests. "I think all the talk of pancakes has me thinking other thoughts."

"Fine, fine," Mitch says, sighing and flinging the sheets back. Dylan turns away quickly, lest he make any decisions that lead him away from food. He hears Mitch laugh again behind him. "Does the daylight make you shy?"

"No," Dylan says, keeping his back turned and finding himself eternally grateful that he'd managed to find some of his underthings before falling asleep last night. He's never thought of himself as particularly modest, but his cheeks are burning now. "I'm just... unused to it, I suppose."

Dylan hears the rustle of clothing, and then Mitch's arms slip around his waist. "I'm not fit for company, but I'm decent enough for you, I'd think," he says.

"Are you certain?" Dylan asks, a smile tugging at his mouth.

Mitch laughs. "I'll put more clothing on if you still find me alarming," he promises.

Dylan turns; Mitch has his underthings on, and it's certainly a relief. It's enough for Dylan to feel more confident about leaning in and kissing Mitch, not bothering to keep it light, and Mitch kisses him back just as passionately.

"Good morning," Dylan murmurs, pulling back an indeterminable amount of time later.

"I'll say," Mitch says. There's a very enticing flush on his cheeks, but Dylan's stomach chimes in again, and they both laugh. 

"Pancakes," Dylan says. "And then, if you're still willing to, I'd like to hear more about your family." He hesitates, then amends, "Our family."

Mitch smiles, then takes Dylan's hand, lifting it and kissing his fingers. "I'll tell you everything I know," he promises.

It should make Dylan feel victorious, or at least fulfilled. Instead, he feels slightly ill as he follows Mitch down the stairs.

-0-

The pancakes are as good as promised, and the maple syrup is thick and sweet, the kind of indulgence that Dylan rarely has for breakfast. It's a wonderful meal, and when Mitch introduces Dylan to Jennifer as his fiancé, her whole face floods with joy.

"Oh, give me a moment, won't you," she says, dusting her hands on her apron. It doesn't do much to actually remove the flour—apparently pancakes as light as the ones she makes require a lot of sifting, which makes the flour go everywhere—but Dylan has never minded a little dust, so he just smiles when she grabs his hands. "So you're the one's been making him smile these last few weeks, eh?"

Dylan laughs a little, and he knows there's a blush rising to his cheeks. Luckily, Mitch takes pity, stepping up beside Dylan and putting a hand low on his back. "Don't embarrass him," he says, laughing a little. "Or worse, embarrass me."

Jennifer laughs, full and hearty. "Oh, we'll see about that," she says, tone teasing. Dylan likes her pretty much immediately. "I've been with the Marner family for longer than Mitch has been alive, so I know all the good stories. You just ask me whatever you want to know about the scrapes he used to get into, and I'll tell you all the tales your heart can handle, Master Strome."

"Oh, ah," Dylan says. "Please, just Dylan."

She smiles at him widely and squeezes his hands before letting him go. "Well, I'll let you two get to whatever you're planning for the day," she says. "Dylan, I'd love to talk to you about food when you have some free time. Everyone's got favourites, and I know how to prepare a good number of things. Let me know what you like and I'll see what I can do."

"She'll be thrilled to have more variety than my favourites," Mitch says lightly. "Not this morning, Jennifer, but perhaps before the next time you go to the market. That's Thursday, right?"

"It is indeed," Jennifer says. "Now go, shoo, do whatever you were planning to do. I'm going to see what we have around here for a nice cake to celebrate tonight."

"You'll celebrate with us, won't you?" Dylan asks. He's unsure what makes him do so; his own family doesn't have any servants or employees, but he knows that it's unusual for them to eat with the family. Still, Jennifer obviously knows Mitch quite well, and it seems like the thing to do, having someone who knows him there to celebrate, since his family isn't. Hopefully Dylan will know enough by tonight to have a next step planned out, because as of yet, all he's got is a stomach full of guilt about keeping things from Mitch.

Jennifer glances at Mitch, then back at Dylan. "Of course," she says, reaching out to squeeze Dylan's hand again. "It's been a long time since we've had such happy news around here. I'll be thrilled to celebrate with you."

"We'll see you later," Mitch adds, reaching for Dylan's hand. "Please do invite Jeremy to eat with us as well. Dylan's yet to meet him."

"I will, and I promise to make him pull his hair back," Jennifer says, laughing, as they walk out of the kitchen.

"Jeremy is Jennifer's husband," Mitch says, swinging their hands a little as they walk towards the parlor. "They're... well. They're part of the whole history of what happened with my family."

Dylan nods a little. "It seemed as if she knew you well."

Mitch smiles broadly. "She's been almost a second mother to me my entire life. I'm quite glad that you have no issues with her and Jeremy joining us tonight."

"It seemed the thing to do," Dylan says, smiling back a little helplessly. "Although I did worry for a moment. I know it's not done."

"It is here," Mitch says simply. He drops Dylan's hand and gestures to the settee, then sits beside him. He sighs after a moment. "I'm afraid I'm not quite sure where to start with everything. It's... complicated."

"I'm sure," Dylan says. He doesn't want to seem too eager, but at the same time, he's certain that whatever Mitch is about to reveal will give him the information he needs to find his family. "I'm here to listen to whatever parts you want to tell me, in whatever order."

Mitch takes his hand again. "And I thank you for that."

Dylan squeezes, and Mitch squeezes back.

"My family has been here for a few generations now," Mitch finally starts, slowly, as if he's still sorting it out in his head. "My great-grandparents came from England, and my family had not been back since, but my mother got a letter from a family member. Second cousin, third cousin, some such. It said that there was some great family heirloom that they'd discovered, and it rightfully belonged to our branch of the family, and would Mother want to travel to England and retrieve it?"

"So she and your father went?" Dylan asks.

Mitch snorts. "No, of course not. They assumed it was some sort of trick; Mother had no recollection of her grandparents lamenting a lost heirloom, so she put it aside, but then another letter arrived, describing a statuette. There was a lot of convincing detail in it, so Mother took both letters to her parents, and they decided that there was merit in writing back and asking for more information."

"Which followed, naturally," Dylan prompts.

"It did," Mitch confirms. "Grandfather recognised a good deal of the information that poured in over the course of the next two months. Names, places, stories. I honestly don't know if he actually recalled a missing heirloom or if the stories wove themselves into his mind to make him think he did, but he became convinced that this statuette was real, that he recalled something about it from his childhood, and so Mother and Father decided to leave us in their care and go retrieve it."

Dylan nods. "It makes sense."

"It does," Mitch says. "Except they never returned. The cousins didn't respond to further letters, and other than the record of them getting onto the ship, there was no trace of them to be found."

"So they got off the ship in England and something happened to them," Dylan says. "Were the other passengers on the ship ever questioned?"

Mitch looks at him. "I'm not sure. Why would that matter?"

Dylan gives him a half-smile, but his mind is turning over and over. "I apologise," he says. "It's a bit of investigation that I picked up from my father. My first thought was to see if the other passengers noticed anything, or if they remembered anything odd happening on the ship."

"I wish we'd known of your father back then," Mitch says quietly. "He may have been of great help."

"I'm sorry," Dylan says. He squeezes Mitch's hand again. "So they left for England, and that was the last you saw of them."

Mitch shrugs a little. "Chris was sixteen at the time; he wasn't old enough to inherit the title, not truly, but Grandfather had no interest in it. By the time we realised that they weren't coming home, Chris had assumed much of the day-to-day running of the estate, and as such, was called Lord Marner. And so he remained."

"Until a few years ago," Dylan prompts.

"Yes," Mitch confirms. "Grandmother passed half a year after our parents left. I think she truly believed that they would return." He laughs quietly, and there's old pain in it. "Grandfather held on for a few more years. It's always been my opinion that he was waiting until he was quite sure that Chris had control over everything, that he could truly manage, and then he let himself join her."

"That's a wonderful way to think of it," Dylan says. "What happened with Chris after that?"

Mitch sighs. "We got another letter," he says. "About a month after we buried Grandfather. It was the same handwriting as the cousins' letters all those years ago, and it said that our parents were still alive, being held captive."

"Held captive," Dylan echoes. "By whom? Where? Why?"

"All good questions," Mitch says, voice grim. "They demanded money, delivered in person, alone. Chris was no fool, of course; he took a friend with him to act as lookout, and neither has been seen since."

"It's all connected," Dylan murmurs. There's almost enough here, he thinks. The people behind this have to be behind taking Father and Matty. The statuette is a hoax, Dylan's sure of it; that's the item marked next to the name Marner on the sheet sewn into Father's satchel, but Mitch had all but said he doesn't believe it's real. There's still something missing, but this is so very much more than he'd known even an hour ago, and he's nearly trembling.

"It is," Mitch agrees. "Whether my parents were still alive then or not, it was the same people behind it. They gave no proof, but what proof could they have given? Chris had to go."

"Mitch," Dylan says, his mind racing. "Might we go fetch my things from Mrs. Mercer's? And then I... there's something I need to tell you."

-0-

"Oh, Dylan," Mrs. Mercer says when they walk in together. Her face is filled with relief, and Dylan is puzzled as she comes out from behind the counter to embrace him. "I worried so!"

"My apologies," Dylan says, slightly bewildered. "I should've sent word that I wouldn't be returning last night."

"Never mind that," she says, drawing back. Her face is suddenly solemn. "Dylan, I thought..."

"Are you quite alright, Mrs. Mercer?" Mitch asks, laying a hand on her arm. "Shall I send for Christian, or for your sister?"

"Oh, no," Mrs. Mercer says. "I've already had the soldiers in, and I'm quite all right, now that I know you're safe."

Dylan can feel his blood turn to ice. "What happened?"

"There was a break-in," Mrs. Mercer says. "Sometime during the night, dear. Someone broke into your room, and the whole place is a fright. Your things are missing, and I worried that they'd dragged you out with them."

"What?" Dylan nearly shouts. He steps back and looks to the stairs. "Everything?"

"I'm so sorry," Mrs. Mercer says, but Dylan's already striding across the tavern, heading for the stairs that lead to the room he'd been using.

Everything has been put to rights, but Mrs. Mercer was correct; all of Dylan's things are gone. His satchel is nowhere to be seen, his clothing is gone, Matty's knife...

"Dylan," Mitch says quietly from the doorway. "What on earth..."

"A knife," Dylan says. "I need a knife."

"For what?" Mitch asks.

"They didn't get everything," Dylan says, flipping the mattress. His seam is still sewn neatly in, and he can feel the rolled-up cloth from Father's satchel inside it. "In fact, I'd wager they didn't get the one thing they came here looking for."

Mitch doesn't say anything, but when Dylan turns to face him, he kneels and reaches into the side of his boot. A moment later, he pulls a small knife out and holds it out for Dylan. It only takes a few seconds for Dylan to split the seam and reach inside, and when he pulls his hand out, he's relieved beyond measure to find that it is indeed Father's scroll. He tucks it carefully into his vest, then stands and turns to face Mitch. "We need to talk."

"I'll say," Mitch says, both eyebrows raised. "We'll also need to pay for that mattress."

"I'll mend it," Dylan says. "I'll get a needle and thread from Mrs. Mercer and just—"

"I think we need to talk more than we need to save the cost of the repair," Mitch cuts in. "I'll arrange things with Mrs. Mercer. Can you get the horses ready?"

Dylan nods and walks towards Mitch, hesitating once they're side-by-side. He reaches out and squeezes Mitch's hand, relieved when Mitch doesn't shy away. "I promise I'll explain," he says. "You're... you're very likely to be upset with me."

Mitch tightens his grip. "Are you leaving? Cancelling our engagement?"

"No," Dylan says hastily. "No, but... ah. You may be angry enough to want to."

Mitch looks at him, face open. "We shall see," he says. "I strongly doubt it, though. Unless you tell me that your family was responsible for what happened to mine."

"I don't have any reason to think that," Dylan says. "I can't tell you who is behind it, but..."

"What on earth," Mrs. Mercer says from behind Mitch. Dylan looks up and sees that she's looking into the room, to the corner of the mattress that he had slashed open.

"Mrs. Mercer," Mitch says smoothly, squeezing Dylan's hand before dropping it and turning to face her. "Dylan came upstairs to see if they truly had found everything, and found himself... rather distraught." He looks significantly at Dylan, who bows his head. "I'm so very sorry, for this and for everything else you've had to go through. Might we go to your office and discuss reparations?"

"Oh, Lord Marner, that's not necessary," Mrs. Mercer says, but at least she's looking at Mitch now, not at the bed. "I'm deeply apologetic about the entire situation. Truly, we should have been more careful in securing the door for the night."

"Even so," Mitch says, walking into the hallway and towards the stairs, and sure enough, Mrs. Mercer trails after him. "You were surely inconvenienced, and I'd hate to see your business suffer from it because someone attacked my fiancé's room. I'm happy to help cover the cost for you."

"Oh, congratulations, Lord Marner," Mrs. Mercer says, and then they disappear down the stairs, and Dylan lets out a sigh of relief.

He gives them another moment, then slips down the stairs and out the door. The stable boy is happy to help him saddle the horses, and by the time Mitch emerges from the tavern, they're ready to go.

Mitch breathes a sigh when he catches sight of Dylan. "I was afraid you wouldn't be here," he says quietly, drawing close. "You scared me before, inside."

Dylan gives him a brief smile. "I'm here," he says simply, because what else is there to say?

"Well, I've made things right with Mrs. Mercer, and she's very happy for us," Mitch says, pulling back and walking towards his horse. He mounts easily, waiting for Dylan to do the same before they head off. "We may have to invite her to the wedding."

Dylan takes a deep breath. "I meant what I said," he says quietly. "You may... I won't blame you, Mitch, if you call things off."

He can see Mitch grip his reins more tightly. "We'll talk," he says resolutely. "But you're frightening me again, Dylan, just so you're aware."

"I don't mean to," Dylan says, looking away. "I just don't know how to prepare you for what I have to say."

"Have you hurt someone?" Mitch asks.

Dylan shakes his head. "Not physically, no. Though if I come face-to-face with the people who took my father and brother..."

Mitch laughs, a dark, bitter edge to the sound. "I wouldn't blame you for that, and you must know that by now, Dylan."

"I do," Dylan says. "We're nearly to your estate. Can't we wait until we're there?"

"We can," Mitch acquiesces, and they lapse into silence.

Jeremy takes their horses at the stable, and Mitch offers Dylan his arm as they walk back towards the house. He stops them in the garden, gesturing to a bench. "Might we talk out here?"

"That sounds nice," Dylan says, swallowing. "Are you certain? You don't want a drink, or—"

"Dylan," Mitch says quietly. He leans in to press a gentle kiss against Dylan's lips. "Please. If you're going to break my heart, please get it over with."

Dylan draws in a shaky breath. "I didn't do this to hurt you," he says quietly. "None of it, not at all, but—"

He sits on the bench and draws Father's list from his vest, then spreads it across his lap. His fingers trace the words he's nearly memorised by now—names, items, dates. "My father was out searching when he and my brothers were taken," he says slowly. "I'm generally the one searching with him; it's sheer dumb luck that I happened to be in town with Mother that day."

"Okay," Mitch says, sitting beside him. "And that is..."

"A list," Dylan says. "Father was tracking down a large number of what I thought were lost and stolen items. I have no idea how he connected all of them, but the incidents span years. Over a decade. I looked in his notes after finding this list, and..."

"My name was on it," Mitch says slowly. He takes the list from Dylan's lap and spreads it across his own. "You already knew about the statuette, be it real or imaginary. The entire story I told you earlier, that was all old hat for you."

Dylan shakes his head. "It wasn't. I had nothing to do with this job of Father's, and I had no idea what any of the names on his list meant."

"I was a target," Mitch says, mostly to himself. "A suspect, not..." He trails off, fingers tracing not quite absently over his name on the fabric. "So you meant none of it. I was merely a means to an end."

"No," Dylan says vehemently. "No, Mitch, not that. Never that. I would never have..." He blushes, deep and sudden, and looks down. "I didn't mean to do anything more than talk to a few people, feign interest until I got the information I needed, and then disappear. I didn't plan on you."

Mitch's laugh is small and unhappy. "That isn't nearly as comforting as you mean it, I'm sure."

"I'm sorry," Dylan says, nearly desperate. "I'm telling you this now because I couldn't just disappear on you. I wouldn't, and carrying this around, continuing to mislead you, it was eating me up inside. I couldn't bear to lie to you any longer."

They're both quiet, and Dylan does his best to compose himself. It's difficult; he knows how much he's hurt Mitch, and he does regret not being forthright with him from the start, but there's no way he could have known then that Mitch is who he is, that he's trustworthy and funny and sharp, with a smile too big for his face and a heart too big for his body. On the other hand, he feels as if he's one piece of information away from finding Father and Matty, and all he needs is to review his list and think a little harder on Mitch's story, and he might be able to unravel the whole thing.

"Dylan," Mitch says, and Dylan turns to him. He can't read Mitch's face at all, and his heart falls. He tries to brace himself, but he's honestly not sure that he can. "I think—"

"Dylan," someone else shouts, and he and Mitch both turn.

"Michael," Dylan says, standing from the bench. "What are you—how did you—"

"Dylan," Mitch says quietly, standing beside him. "Is everything okay?"

Dylan jerks a bit, turning to look at Mitch. He's shorter than Michael, a bit less solidly built, but he looks as if he's ready to jump between them if Dylan shows any signs of unease. Perhaps, a foolish, hopeful part of Dylan's mind says, perhaps all isn't lost.

"Mitch, this is Michael, a dear friend of mine," Dylan says. "Michael, this is Mitchell Marner, Earl of London."

"A pleasure, m'lord," Michael says, skidding to a stop mere inches from Dylan. "You must come quickly. Saddle your horse and head home, Dylan, come with me now."

Dylan feels fear grip his chest. "What happened? Is it my mother, is Ryan—"

"Matthew," Michael cuts in. "Dylan, Matty turned up early this morning."

-0-

It's a matter of minutes before they're riding hard back towards Lorne Park; Michael is leading the way, Dylan close behind. The most shocking part of this whole thing is that Mitch is following Dylan, not saying a word as they ride like the devil is chasing them. He'd quietly asked Dylan if he could be of help, and when Dylan had hesitated, mind jerking in too many different directions to make a clear choice, asked if Dylan simply wanted his company. Dylan had felt too selfish to express when he'd said _yes, please,_ but Mitch had given him a small smile and started saddling his horse.

Dylan can't begin to imagine how exhausted Arrowhead must be, but she doesn't falter beneath Michael at all, not once in the nearly four-hour ride. It's an exhausting trip to make for horse and human alike, but Dylan doesn't dare slow down, not when Matty is home, safe for now if not entirely sound, not when he can possibly find out whatever the last bit of information he's been missing is. He pushes on, and when the familiar sights of Lorne Park begin to fly by him, he nudges Arborvitae towards the McLeod estate.

"Here, Dylan," Ryan McLeod calls when Dylan pulls up beside the stable. "Give me the reins, go, go—"

"My thanks," Dylan says, sliding down and tossing the reins to Ryan. Then he's rushing inside without a thought, and he can hear footsteps behind him, Michael and Mitch running as fast as he is.

"Here," he hears Mother call, and he turns sharply into the sitting room.

"Matty," he breathes, crossing the room in a few strides and dropping to his knees. Matty looks unharmed, quite unlike Ryan had when he'd returned home. "Are you..."

"Dylan," Matty says, leaning down and wrapping his arms around Dylan's shoulders. "Oh, Dylan, I'm so glad to see you."

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here," Dylan breathes out. "Oh, Matty."

He hears people moving behind him, but he needs a moment to collect himself before he deals with the rest of his family. He grips at Matty's back and breathes slowly for a moment, closing his eyes and letting part of himself relax before letting go and pulling away.

Matty is smiling at him, a small, crooked thing. "I heard you went to London for me."

Dylan laughs. "I did," he agrees. "And, ah."

Mother's looking at him when he stands, but it's less pointed than he anticipated it would be; it's Matty being home, Dylan's sure of it, because otherwise she wouldn't be pleased at all with him being rude in front of guests. He glances around the room quickly, finding his own brother Ryan as well as Michael and Matthew, and Lord and Lady McLeod besides. Well, he thinks a bit ruefully as he walks to Mitch's side, at least he'll likely only have to do this once.

"I'm happy to do personal introductions later," he says, meeting Ryan's eyes, then Mother's. "But Mitch, this is my family, as well as the family of my closest friends." He takes a deep breath. "Everyone, this is Mitchell Marner, Earl of London. We..."

He trails off because he's entirely unsure; he'd accepted Mitch's proposal less than a day ago, but too much has transpired since then for him to be sure that the offer still stands. He glances at Mitch, who looks back at him for a moment before giving him a small nod and a smile.

"We're engaged to be married," Mitch says, taking Dylan's hand and squeezing it. He looks around the room calmly, doing a good job of not reacting too openly to the looks of shock on most of the faces around him. He settles his gaze on Ryan, and Dylan will be grateful to him forever, quite possibly, because he doesn't drop Dylan's hand as he nods. "Lord Strome, we can speak of the matter more privately, if that's your wish."

"Good mercy, no," Ryan says quickly, and Dylan's sure it's Matty who turns a laugh into a cough, but he can't look away from Mitch's face for long enough to confirm his suspicion. "Dylan can make his own decisions as far as I'm concerned. Unless Mother has any objections, of course."

Dylan finally turns at that; Mother's face seems unreadable, but Dylan might be too nervous to try to interpret her expression at the moment.

"Well," she says eventually. "This is... quite unexpected, Lord Marner, but not unwelcome. If you've no objections, I'd like to get to know you a little better before giving my blessing."

"If it helps, Lady Strome," Michael volunteers, "he had no qualms about accompanying us back here today, even given the haste that the situation demanded."

Mother turns to smile at him. "It does, Michael. Thank you for telling me."

Mitch hasn't dropped Dylan's hand, and Dylan can't be sure if he's squeezing it now to reassure Dylan or to soothe himself. "I'm happy to talk with you, Lady Strome," he says. "Any questions you have are ones I'm willing to answer."

"Very well," Mother says, nodding at Mitch. "I hope you'll understand if we postpone that conversation for a bit, though. The rest of the family is under... considerable stress, one might say."

"Take all the time you need," Mitch says. "Dylan's told me about what happened. I'm happy to offer my help in any capacity, as well."

"Thank you, Lord Marner," Mother says. She sighs and glances to Lady McLeod. "I'm terribly sorry to be rude, but might I have a few moments with my sons?"

"Certainly, Trish," Lady McLeod says, rising from her settee. "Boys, Richard, we all have other things we could be doing right now. Lord Marner, we'll be happy to arrange for accommodations for your stay if you'd like to come with us."

Mitch leans into Dylan's space, and Dylan turns to face him. "You're okay?" he asks quietly. "I can go play nicely with Lady McLeod, but if you'd rather I was here..."

"You're here," Dylan says simply, smiling at him. "I'm not sure why, honestly, but you going a few rooms over with Lady McLeod won't bother me at this point. I'll find you later."

"Okay," Mitch says, smiling back. "We need to talk, Dylan, and you're right, I'm upset. But I'm not upset enough to leave you, or to break things off."

Dylan laughs a little. "I gathered, since you told my family and friends without blinking."

Mitch shrugs a little, smiling wider. "Well, you were unsure. What else was I to do?"

"Lord Marner?" Lady McLeod asks, and when Dylan turns sharply, slightly startled, she smiles at him, clearly amused. "This way, please."

Mitch squeezes Dylan's hand before dropping it and stepping away. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he says. "I'll follow your lead, of course."

Dylan watchs as Mitch follows Lady McLeod out of the room, then turns back to see identical skeptical looks on the faces of his mother and both brothers.

"Well," Matty says, never one to wait for anything if he's not forced to. "Apparently my story might not be the most interesting one told today, after all."

-0-

It's dark before Dylan sees Mitch again; he's grateful beyond words that Lady McLeod had simply assigned them a guest suite to share, though he's not sure if it's due to knowing Dylan would want the comfort, or to a lack of extra guest rooms since almost all of the Stromes are currently in her household.

"Dylan," Mitch says when he enters the room. He feels exhausted, but he still manages a smile when Mitch meets him halfway across the room and draws him into an embrace. "Is Matty quite all right? He didn't look harmed."

"He swears he's not hurt," Dylan says, clinging to Mitch a little. It's become the most steadying thing in the world, being able to stand with Mitch and just breathe with him. "Apparently he didn't try to fight back as hard, so they stopped trying to hit him. Matthew says there's no bruising, and he's done work with the doctor, so his word is trustworthy."

"That's good," Mitch says, rubbing gently at Dylan's back. "I'm so glad to hear it, truly."

Dylan laughs a little, feeling the tiredness around the edges. "I owe you so many more explanations."

Mitch pulls back a little, a serious expression on his face. "Dylan," he says, cupping Dylan's face in both hands. "Do you care for me?"

"Yes," Dylan says. It's instant and without hesitation, and it's the truest thing that Dylan could possibly say in this moment. "I didn't mean to, but—yes. I care for you."

Mitch smiles and lets one hand drop, grasping Dylan's hand and raising it up between them. He presses a kiss to the back of Dylan's fingers, then looks up at him. "Whatever roads we've travelled in the past have brought us here. You care for me, and I care for you. It hurts that you didn't trust me; of course it does. You didn't know me, though, and I could well have been involved, for all you knew."

Dylan nods, too afraid to speak.

"Then we move forward from here," Mitch says, voice gentle. "And we work together to build that trust, so we never find ourselves here again."

"Mitch," Dylan chokes out. His emotions always run close to the surface, but he usually has better control of them than he does now.

"Marry me," Mitch murmurs, the words the same as they had been the night before, but the tone so much different, the emotion behind it somehow even more sincere.

"I plan to," Dylan says, voice barely above a whisper.

Mitch smiles at him. "Good. Then I'll start planning a way to win your mother over."

It makes Dylan laugh and breaks some of the spell around them, for which Dylan is grateful. "She's not nearly as intimidating as you seem to think."

"I want to make a good impression," Mitch says. "I don't want to leave her with any doubts about me."

"That's fair," Dylan admits. "I can help with that, if you want."

Mitch laughs a little. "Unless there's something strange that I would never think to consider, let me do this on my own," he says. "Maybe I need to prove things to myself somewhat, too."

"You don't need to prove anything to me," Dylan says softly. "If that's worth much."

"It's worth a lot," Mitch promises. He leans in and kisses Dylan, quick and soft, and then pulls away. "Do you want to discuss what you learned from Matty? Do you have any more clues about your father's whereabouts?"

Dylan shakes his head a little. "I want to tell you about all of it," he promises. "But first I'd like to think a bit, to see if there's anything I've missed. A possible connection, or a detail that I've nearly forgotten, or..."

"Certainly," Mitch says, drawing back a little. "Sleep on it, and we can discuss it tomorrow, or whenever you're ready."

"Tomorrow," Dylan agrees. "I don't want to wait too much longer, Mitch. I feel like time is of the essence, and I want to come up with a plan and start moving as soon as possible."

"Tomorrow, then," Mitch says. "I'm here to assist you in whatever way I can. If that's helping you plan something, then good; if it's staying back and befriending the McLeods, then that's what I'll do."

Dylan smiles at that. "They like you," he says, confident in this, at least. "You made an excellent impression on Michael today, and his word carries a lot of weight when it comes to matters concerning me. We've been friends our entire lives and know each other quite well."

"Should I be concerned that he'll challenge me for your hand?" Mitch asks, tone teasing.

It makes Dylan laugh. "Has he not already mentioned his Nathan around you several dozen times?"

"Oh, he has," Mitch says, laughing along with him. "I just thought it prudent to ask, is all."

"My virtue is safe from Michael," Dylan says, shaking his head with a smile. "From all McLeods, in case you decided to start wondering about Matthew or Ryan."

Mitch raises his eyebrows suggestively. "I believe I know exactly the kind of danger your virtue might be in, and it has nothing to do with the inhabitants of this fine estate."

Dylan laughs even as his face flushes. "That's very true."

"If you're tired, or too distracted, tell me," Mitch says, drawing close again. "Because I'd like to conduct a thorough examination of your... virtues, if you're willing."

Dylan lets Mitch pull him in, helps Mitch unbutton his shirt and begin to unlace his trousers. "Only if I can examine yours in return," he says, far too belatedly for it to make much sense, but Mitch's face lights with his smile.

"I wouldn't want it any other way," he says, and it sounds like a promise.

-0-

They all gather after breakfast, and it seems awkward for a few minutes before Dylan realises: they're waiting for him to lead the entire meeting. It's startling, because it feels natural to look to Lord McLeod, or to wait for his own father to stroll in and begin; Lord McLeod doesn't know what's going on, though, and if Father was here, there would be no need to have the meeting. Dylan takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then clears his throat.

"Unless anyone has an objection or a better idea, I think Matty should tell his story again," he says. "Then Ryan, and then I think Mitch will have a few things to add."

Matty looks around, but all of the expectant stares are aimed at him now, so he shrugs his shoulders and looks down. "They separated me from Father almost immediately," he says. "It's not just that they kept us away from each other, either—they took us to different places. Different... camps, I'd say. Not quite settlements, but more permanent than a bed roll for a single night."

"Do you know how far it was?" Matthew asks, leaning forward a little.

"No," Matty says, shaking his head. "It was fairly far, but that's all I can tell you. I realised that they were trying to misdirect me, but I'm not... that's all I could tell. Dylan would have been able to figure it out, probably."

"That's important to know," Dylan says encouragingly. "It means that we might not have to look as far away as we may have thought otherwise. Keep going, Matty."

"There were a lot of questions," Matty says. "Constant, and only sometimes related. Who was I, what was I looking for, who hired me. They didn't appreciate me not knowing a lot of what they were asking."

Mother makes a wounded noise. "You said they didn't hurt you!"

Matty darts a glance at her, then at Dylan. "I said I wasn't hurt," he says carefully. "Mostly they just kept food from me, Mother. I'm hungry, but I truly am fine."

"So you don't know what you were looking for or who hired your father," Lord McLeod says. "I suppose we'll have to—"

"Well," Matty breaks in. "I may have... obscured the truth a bit."

Dylan leans forward. "You know who hired Father?"

"Nobody did," he says simply. "He called it a search of curiosity. He'd made a list of items that he'd connected somehow, and he was trying to see if he could find more information, or figure out who might be behind whatever happened to them."

Ryan makes a small sound. "He confided this in you? Why didn't he tell me?"

"You were sleeping," Matty says, smiling a little crookedly. "It was the night we were attacked, Ryan. You fell asleep early, and Father showed me a list he kept in his satchel. I suppose it's gone now, but it was extensive."

"It's not gone," Dylan says. He reaches into his vest and pulls the list out; he hasn't let it out of his sight except to sleep since the break-in at the tavern. "There were a few things left at your campsite. Father's empty satchel was one of them." He glances at Ryan. "He sews it into the lining. They probably thought the list was in the contents of the bag and simply grabbed whatever was in there."

"He was going to tell you in the morning," Matty says to Ryan. "He wasn't keeping the information from you, Ryan, not on purpose."

"Okay," Ryan says. He leans back, a small frown on his face. "Go on, Matty. So you told them you didn't know who had hired Father, but you knew that we were just out there looking around."

"Right," Matty says, nodding. "It was... I'm not sure exactly how to describe the place. We were in a cabin, but it was deep in the woods, and there were a lot of odd sounds coming from nearby."

"Who do you mean by 'we?'" Mitch asks, leaning forward a little. "You mentioned that you and your father were separated. Do you just mean your captors?"

"No," Matty replies. "The people who took me from the campsite brought me to the cabin, and I assume that the people they delivered me to were their compatriots, but there were others there as well." He hesitates. "I wasn't supposed to talk to them, nor they to me. They were all quite dirty, and they were taken from the cabin in the mornings and returned in the evenings. Men and women alike."

"How many people?" Lady McLeod asks.

"Fifteen, I'd wager," Matty replies. "It's hard to say. The cabin wasn't kept lit, and they returned after dark most nights."

"Mercy," Lady McLeod breathes. "What on earth could they be doing?"

Ryan McLeod, who has been sitting quietly the whole time, reaches out to touch Matty's hand. "Tell them about your escape."

Matty smiles at him, quick and shy; that's a question for another time entirely, Dylan decides as Matty begins to speak. "I've no idea why they didn't send me off with the rest of the people there, but I did my best to play younger than I was, which may have been a contributing factor. They were guarding me during the day, but it wasn't difficult to learn which guards were more lax, or perhaps lazy. I asked for a bathroom break when the least responsible guard was in charge, and when he turned his back to give me privacy, I struck him about the head, jumped on his horse, and rode as quickly as I could away from the cabin."

Mitch whistles, long and low. "His compatriots didn't give chase?"

Matty winces, and Ryan McLeod takes his hand. "I struck him rather hard," Matty says. "I saw him fall and it made a sound as if his head struck a rock. I didn't stay to check on him, but I might have..."

"It's okay," Ryan says, and Dylan can see him rubbing gently at Matty's hand. "You did what you had to do."

"Anyway, I just started riding," Matty says. "I eventually reached a town, and they directed me south. I came this way as quickly as I could, but it was a few days before I made it home."

The room falls into silence for a moment, and then Mother reaches over and takes Matty's free hand. "I'm glad you made it," she says, voice choked up. "I'm so very glad, Matthew."

"We all are," Dylan's Ryan says. He looks pale, and Dylan remembers how his thoughts had been clouded, how much he complained of his head hurting. The bruising has largely faded, but Dylan hadn't asked how the inside of his head was doing, and he's now wondering if Ryan is as well as he appears. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there with you."

"Don't be," Matty says. "I'm sure they would've taken you and made you do whatever the others there were doing. And there's no way I would have left you there, Ryan, so we'd both still be stuck."

Ryan sighs. "I still feel bad about it."

"Well," Dylan says. "Perhaps we can channel that into finding Father and bringing him home." And, with any luck, solving Father's puzzle once and for all, he adds mentally. He'll settle for just having Father back, but he knows for certain that Father won't be happy to settle for that.

"Do you have any ideas?" Michael asks. "I'm happy to go north, but there are many things north of here, and there's no telling how far we'll have to go, or how far east or west we'd have to be of any given point north."

"Matthew, you mentioned hearing noises," Lord McLeod says. "Can you describe them at all? Attempt to replicate them, perhaps?"

Matty shakes his head. "I couldn't hope to replicate them," he says."They were... odd. Mechanical, like a large well pump, or the grinding of gears."

"Mechanical," Mitch says sharply. "And north of here, you said?"

"What is it?" Dylan asks, turning to him.

"Matty, do you recall the names of any of the towns you rode through?" Mitch asks. He puts a hand on Dylan's thigh, and Dylan understands the implicit message: _hold your question, just for a moment. Let me see if my thoughts pan out._

Matty frowns a little. "I rode through Sudbury about halfway here," he says. "The town I escaped to began with a T, but I honestly can't recall what its full name was. I was too eager to get out."

"And the other people there," Mitch says. "They disappeared all day and returned dirty?"

"Yes," Matty confirms. "Terribly so, and their skin was incredibly pale, so it was easy to see."

Mitch turns to Dylan. "The mines," he says. "There are mining operations up north. Between the mechanical noise and the dirt, the paleness? It would make sense for it to be some sort if illicit mining operation."

Dylan blinks. It does make sense, but— "Why the captives?" he asks. "Why bother, when potential employees are easily found?"

"The simplest answer would be greed," Matthew says, and Dylan turns to face him. "Employees require paychecks. Captives don't."

"And if a captive's life is lost, there's no investigation, no inquiry," Ryan McLeod adds. "There are simply new captives to take the place of the old ones."

"But how does this connect to what my husband was doing?" Mother asks. "He was searching for missing items. That's completely separate from an illicit mining operation."

"It is, but it also isn't," Mitch says. He reaches his hand towards Dylan and Dylan takes it, rubbing soothing circles on the back of Mitch's hand. "My family's name is on Lord Strome's list. We were told that we're missing an object, a small statue that my grandparents thought they recalled but none of us had ever seen. We were contacted about it a decade ago, and when my parents left to retrieve it, they went missing. Years later, my brother was contacted about my parents' whereabouts and again about the statue, and when he went to investigate further..." Mitch shrugs. "I've since sworn off statues, you could say."

"So either all of the missing items are hoaxes designed to draw in people who can be used in these mines, or the items were actually taken for the express purpose of drawing those same people in," Lord McLeod says. "That seems... overly convoluted at best."

"It does," Ryan agrees. "But who would ever connect those dots without having someone with Matty's experience and someone with Mitch's in the same room?"

"A good point," Lord McLeod concedes. "But where do we go from here? What do we do? It's not as if we can go to the outpost and present our claims. There's not a shred of solid evidence, even though I do find myself believing it."

"We look for a map," Michael says. "We look to see how far Sudbury is, and we look that far north again to see if we can find a town that begins with a T. We start there, and we see what we can find."

It's as good a starting point as any, Dylan figures. And if they can find evidence, then they can find Father and bring and end to this once and for all.

-0-

Evidence, it turns out, is somewhat difficult to find.

They find a small mining community called Timmins, but they also come across a Tionaga and a Tweed. The latter isn't likely, as Sudbury would present quite a detour, but the point stands; T is a common letter, and mining is only growing in popularity as people discover more and more minerals to be brought from the ground. Matty still can't recall the name of the town, and Matthew tells Dylan quietly that he may never really recall it. "Stress does that to a body," Matthew says, face grave and voice low, and Dylan decides to stop pestering Matty about it. Instead he conducts as much study as he can and decides that Timmins is the most likely location, and it's large enough that it's a reasonable place to begin a search anyway.

Mitch rides back to London, armed with more specific information about the Tkachuk and Mete families' possible missing objects, and returns with a confirmation and a level of bewilderment; apparently the Tkachuks had an uncle go missing several years ago, and nobody had any inclination why, but Victor Mete had gone pale and produced a letter sent to his family only a few months prior about a family heirloom unearthed in Europe, and the handwriting and wording are a very close match to the letters that Mitch had produced. It's conclusive in Dylan's mind, but Ryan talks him down from storming to the outpost with the information. "We need more," Ryan had finally said, and Dylan can't argue with that, not really.

It's an anxious waiting period in which Dylan feels as if he's losing time with no appreciable gain, but he understands the effort that everyone is putting in while also maintaining a veneer of respectability. There are three estates to be run, between the McLeods, Stromes, and Marners, and though none of them are trying to do anything extravagant, there's still a lot of day-to-day management that needs to be handled. There are also some clues that don't add up no matter how hard Dylan tries, and he has the feeling that he won't be able to make hide nor hair of them until the whole mystery is laid out in front of him.

"Why the extra horse?" he wonders aloud one day. "Ryan took Domino, but we found three horses at the campsite. What could the purpose have been?"

"I don't know," Mitch says. "We'll have to ask."

It's become Mitch's favourite turn of phrase; it's as if he imagines a civil meeting between them and the master of operations, a balanced meeting of the minds in which questions are asked and then dutifully answered in turn. Dylan imagines no such thing, but he doesn't bother correcting Mitch on it. He doubts Mitch actually believes it either.

"We will," Dylan says, letting it go for the time being.

There's a matter of personnel, too, which is Dylan's current predicament. Matty had been able to recall five different guards, but said that there were different people to bring the captives to and from the mine. They have to plan on finding at least a dozen people, and though the captives would probably be glad to lend a hand, Matty's descriptions of them makes Dylan think that they'll be far too weak to actually help. They'll have to turn up with enough people to take the camp, and they'll have to have people trained in medicine to evaluate the captives' conditions after that.

He knows he has people he can ask; he's got plenty of friends who would be happy to help, and he knows that Mitch and Michael would be glad to spread the word as well. Dylan truly wants to exercise caution, though; if word somehow travels ahead of them, there's every possibility that whoever's behind all of this will simply vanish, possibly taking Father with them. It's why he doesn't go straight to the outpost and ask if Commander Kadri would be willing to lend some of his troops, or perhaps even to lead the charge.

"I have a friend who would want to help, if you're open to telling people I know," Mitch says, drawing Dylan from his thoughts. "He's an American, and he's quite experienced in a great many things. I trust him without question. He'll be in town near the end of the month."

Dylan considers it. "Might I meet him first? I trust your judgement, Mitch, but I'd like to know the man before I agree to work with him."

"Of course," Mitch says. "His name is Matthews. He holds no title, but—"

"American," Dylan says, smiling a little. "What's his given name?"

"Auston," Mitch says. "He was born and raised in the desert. He travels now, doing work for hire. He's got a great many skills, and I do think he'd be an asset."

"I'm happy to meet him, then," Dylan says. He hesitates a moment. "I'm considering telling a childhood friend of mine. He serves in the military, but he's on leave for half a year. He'd be of incredible help."

"It sounds it," Mitch says. "What's your hesitation for?"

"He might be obligated to say something," Dylan says reluctantly. "I don't want to put him in a spot where he has to choose between being loyal to our friendship or loyal to Canada."

Mitch whistles. "That does sound serious," he says. "Are you truly friends with someone that high up in the military?"

Dylan sighs. "How familiar are you with the military's stars?"

"Only passingly," Mitch admits. "I know of, say, Gretzky and Crosby and McDavid, but past that my knowledge is embarrassingly limited."

"Well," Dylan says slowly. "I grew up with Connor McDavid. We were quite close for a time."

Mitch stares at him for a moment. "You know McDavid? The one I named, that McDavid?"

"He prefers Connor," Dylan offers. "He's a solid fellow, really."

"He's the youngest person to ever be awarded the Victoria Cross," Mitch says, the pitch of his voice startlingly high. "He was all of nineteen."

"I was at the ceremony," Dylan says. "It was quite nice. His mother wept, and the defense minister's wife lent her a handkerchief."

"Connor McDavid," Mitch says. "That's incredible, Dylan."

"Should I be jealous?" Dylan asks, teasing. "Perhaps you'd prefer to take him to bed."

Mitch laughs outright. "I think I've made my choices perfectly clear," he says. "You won't be rid of me that easily, Strome."

"I suppose I'll just have to marry you, then," Dylan says with a smile. "Truly, what a shame that will be."

"I don't know," Mitch says, tapping his chin with his forefinger. "That sounds like a recipe for a happily ever after to me, not a horror story."

"I suppose we'll see," Dylan says, but he knows his smile is too broad for Mitch to think it anything other than agreement.

-0-

Mitch doesn't insist upon accompanying Dylan to meet with Connor, but it looks like he's only just holding himself back.

"You can come along," Dylan offers. "He's a dear friend of mine; the only person I'm closer to is Michael. I'd like for you to meet him."

"I'm a bit afraid I'll make an ass of myself," Mitch says, laughing a little. "If you're not afraid of your fiancé embarrassing you, then I'd be happy to, but I'll also understand if you'd rather I stay behind this time."

Dylan smiles and holds his hand out. "Come with me," he says. "Connor has seen worse, I'm sure. He's probably seen worse from me; we _did_ grow up together."

"I promise not to ask after embarrassing stories from your youth," Mitch says. "Perhaps another day."

"I appreciate your discretion," Dylan says, voice dry. "Let's be on our way. He's expecting us this afternoon, and the ride to Newmarket isn't long, but it will take a bit of time."

The ride is pleasant; the day is warm without being stifling, and Mitch is good company. Dylan arrives in front of his old friend's home in good spirits, and they only rise when Connor's mother opens the door with a smile and an embrace.

"Oh, Dylan, it's been far too long," Lady McDavid says, beaming at him. "And is that Lord Marner I spy? I wasn't aware the two of you were acquainted."

Mitch startles by Dylan's side. "Lady McDavid," he says, and he sounds almost nervous. "I didn't think you'd remember me. It's been an age."

She smiles just as warmly at Mitch as she had at Dylan. "There are a few noble families around who have tried to look out for you," she says. "You're a very capable young man, but with everything that's befallen your family, and how young you were when the title fell to you..."

"You have my thanks," Mitch says. Dylan isn't sure that Lady McDavid can hear how shaky it sounds, but Dylan reaches for Mitch's hand.

"Is Connor about?" Dylan asks. He doesn't miss the way Lady McDavid's eyes dart to their joined hands, but neither does she comment. He'd like to tell Connor first, and then he'll be happy to share.

"He's upstairs," Lady McDavid says, drawing back. "Do come in. Dylan, pardon my rudeness, but you can show yourself to the parlor while I fetch him."

"Thank you," Dylan says, leading Mitch inside.

The parlor is nicely lit by the sun and just as comfortable as Dylan remembers from years of playing in the halls here. He hasn't known Connor all his life, not like he's known Michael, but their friendship is sure and steadfast. He's praying that Connor won't feel caught out by the favour Dylan's here to ask for, but he has faith enough that no matter what happens, their friendship can survive it.

"Dylan," he hears a few minutes after he and Mitch have settled, and he turns to find Connor striding through the door, smile radiating off his face.

Dylan springs to his feet to catch Connor in a quick embrace. "It's good to see you," he says, smiling just as widely. "Mercy, Connor, but you look well."

Connor laughs, a blush stealing across his face. "Well," he says. "I'm told that's what being newly engaged does to a body."

Dylan laughs aloud. "Truly? Who's the lucky person?"

"He's an officer who serves under a different commander," Connor says proudly. "We're here a few months, and then I'll be taking the rest of my leave with him to visit his family out west. I'd love for you to meet him while we're here, Dylan."

"And I'd love to meet him," Dylan promises. "Funny you should mention an engagement, though. Please allow me to introduce Mitchell Marner, Earl of London, and of rather recently my fiancé."

Connor turns and smiles just as brightly at Mitch. "Lord Marner," he says, holding out a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Dylan's a fine man, as I'm certain you know."

"He quite is, Colonel McDavid," Mitch says, grasping Connor's hand and shaking it firmly. "Congratulations on your own engagement. Perhaps we can arrange a time for all four of us to spend an afternoon together before you depart for the west."

"I'd quite like that," Connor says. "And please, I beg of you, don't stand on military ceremony here. If Ryan can manage it, I'd wager you can as well."

Dylan groans. "Not another Ryan."

"He has two last names and goes by Nuge in the field, if that helps," Connor says, laughing. "But, Lord Marner, please call me Connor."

"If you'll call me Mitch," Mitch says, and they shake again as Dylan watches. He hadn't been nervous about them getting along, not truly, but it still settles something in his stomach to see that there's no animosity to be found.

"Now," Connor says, smile fading slightly. "Dylan, you said you had something important you wanted to discuss with me. While I'm happy to hear of your engagement, I'm certain that's not what you had in mind."

"It's not," Dylan says, sighing heavily. "It's quite a story, Connor. Let's all have a seat."

It takes the better part of an hour for Dylan and Mitch to lay the entire story out for Connor; there are a lot of interjections, a lot of questions, and by the time they finish, Connor's expression is thunderous. "So they've been taking people to operate their illicit mining operations for years, and nobody has caught on until now?"

"It's the best theory we've been able to come up with," Dylan says. "I know you're on leave, Connor, and I know you have a sworn duty to the Crown—"

"Sod my leave," Connor says venomously. "I'll ride with you, Dylan. You had to know that."

Dylan sighs and feels the tension in his shoulders relax. "I'd hoped," he says, voice a little quiet. "But I didn't want you to feel conflicted about your loyalties."

Connor laughs, curt and humourless. "If I manage to be part of exposing a crime of this magnitude while on leave and operating without the full resources of the government, they'll find a way to use it to promote me straight out of the field and into a brigadier-general's role, I'm certain."

"A desk job?" Dylan says, frowning. "Aren't you one of the best field commanders they have?"

"I am," Connor says, no false modesty in his voice. "But some days I'm told that I make a better figurehead. General Bettman would love having me on hand to trot out at parades and the like."

Dylan pulls a face. "I can't imagine you leading a parade."

"The things I'm willing to risk enduring for you," Connor says, mock-sighing with a smile on his face. "Is there a plan?"

"More or less," Mitch says. "By which, of course, I mean that we plan to ride north with as many people as we can muster, and then we plan to somehow find the camp and ride in swinging."

Connor snorts. "Forgive me, but that sounds like an awful plan."

"We're aware," Dylan says. "We haven't got anything better, though, and we don't want to wait too long. There's no telling if they move camps, or if they'll cease operating at the mine in Timmins since Matty escaped, or any number of other things."

"Fair points," Connor says, nodding. "I would assume that your brothers and the McLeods are riding with you. Who else do you have?"

"Matty and Ryan McLeod are staying behind," Dylan says firmly. It had been a fight, and it's one he anticipates having again before all is said and done, but the fact remains that one son should stay behind from each family, just in case the worst should happen. Dylan doesn't want to subject Matty to the camp again, not so soon after he's returned, and if Matty stays, Ryan will stay beside him.

"I've a friend from the States who will probably join, as well," Mitch adds. "You may have heard of him. He's called Auston Matthews."

"Auston Matthews?" Connor asks, clearly surprised. He smiles brightly a moment later. "He's a good fellow. I'd be happy to ride alongside him again."

"Again," Dylan echoes. "Truly, Connor, I'd love to spend some time catching up. It sounds as if your deployment has been eventful."

Connor laughs and looks away. "That's certainly one point of view on it." He shakes his head, then turns back to Dylan. "I'll have to confirm it with him, but I'm sure my Ryan would be happy to ride alongside us, if you'll have him."

"If he's someone you trust enough to marry, then he's someone I trust enough to have along," Dylan says. "Thank you, Connor."

"Thank me after we've found your father," Connor says. "There are a few other fellows from my unit scattered around. I'm sure they'd be willing to join as well."

"I trust that you'll use your fair judgement," Mitch interjects, "but please do take care. I've no issue with taking as many people as we can find, but we worry about news spreading before we're ready to head north."

"I'll take care," Connor promises. "Stealth is part of my job, Mitch. I promise I'm good at it."

Mitch laughs a little. "So I've heard," he says, voice dry, and they all laugh along with him.

-0-

The day dawns bright and cold, and Dylan stretches his fingers a bit as he walks towards the stable. Arborvitae greets him with a calm, focused gaze, and it's no trouble to brush and saddle her. Ryan and Mitch arrive not long after, and then the rest of the men arrive in small groups: Michael and Matthew; Auston Matthews with Mitch's friends Crouse and Konecny; Connor with his Ryan and his men Hall and Eberle; Dylan's old friend Alex DeBrincat, who had somehow figured out that something was afoot and showed up to offer his help the night before. They're a sorry-looking bunch, but they're here because Dylan had asked them to come, and he's thankful for them more than he can explain in words.

"It's a three-day ride to Timmins," Dylan says when the horses are ready and the whole group is assembled. "If anyone has any questions, please ask now."

"Are we quite sure we don't want another doctor on hand?" Matthew asks, as Dylan had figured he would. "I'm confident in my abilities, Dylan, but I'm also aware of my limitations."

"There will be a doctor in Timmins," Dylan repeats, as he has every time Matthew has brought up his concerns. "All I ask is that you do what you can, Matthew. We'll work with what we have."

"I have some medical training," Eberle offers. "It isn't much, but I can dress a wound in battle. I'll be happy to help you, Doctor."

Matthew nods. "I'll hold you to it, soldier," he says. "And you have my thanks."

"Have we enough provisions?" Hall asks. "We can stop along the way for more, but if we end up riding deep into the woods after leaving Timmins, there may be nowhere else to stop."

"We have what we can carry," Mitch says. "We'll stop when we can to replenish what we go through, but there's only so much we can take."

"We'll ration," Connor says. He's not wearing his uniform, but Dylan can imagine him in it anyway; he's calmly confident, and when he speaks, Hall and Eberle both snap to attention. It's easy to see how he commands his men in the field, and Dylan feels a swell of pride.

"What will we do if we don't find your father in the camp?" Alex asks.

It's silent for a moment. Matty was firm in the fact that he and Father were separated; Dylan honestly isn't expecting him to be in the camp. It's a frightening thought even though it's one he's sure of. "We ask questions," he finally says. "We press for information. Someone there will be able to tell us something actionable, and we move from there."

"And if we uncover one camp and don't have the resources to continue, we call for reinforcements," Connor adds. "The military would be keen to help, I'm sure."

"I don't think there's much jurisdiction up here for the people I'm used to working with, but I can most likely call for help as well," Matthews adds. "We'll see this through, one way or another."

It's a relief, Dylan finds, to know that even the people here who don't know him well are ready to stand by his side. It's difficult to find the courage to do this, but it's made a bit easier by the men who have promised to ride with him. And, Dylan knows, by Mitch, who takes Dylan's hand and stands quietly by his side as the last of the preparations are made.

"Dylan," someone calls, and Dylan turns to find Mother standing by the stable door.

"Mother," he says, walking quickly to her side. "Are you well?"

She smiles, but there's something trembling in it. "Oh, my son. You've so much of your father in you."

"We're going to bring him back," Dylan promises.

"Bring yourself back, too," she says, reaching out to take his hands in hers. "And your brother, and your friends. Dylan, I want your father back, but we both know that he would never forgive himself if anyone was seriously wounded on his behalf."

"I know," Dylan says. "But I won't leave him in the hands of his kidnappers, Mother. I can't. Please don't ask that of me."

"Oh, Dylan," she says, dropping his hands. She pulls him into a fierce embrace. "Be well," she whispers before letting go and stepping back. Dylan thinks that's the end, but she reaches into her skirt pocket and pulls something out. It's a knife, Dylan can tell immediately, but he doesn't realise what it must be until she pulls the leather cord holding the binding and the linen falls away.

"Mother," he says, shocked, as he stares at the knife. "I couldn't—"

"This was your great-grandfather's," she says, presenting the knife to Dylan. It's not ornate, not nearly as fancy as even Matty's, but Dylan knows for a fact that it's sharp and well-constructed. It's been a fixture in the parlor for longer than Dylan has been alive, but it's been kept honed and polished. Dylan himself has made sure of it; every time he and Father went through the steps of caring for the rest of their equipment, Dylan would take the heirloom off the wall and include it in the ritual. "And now it's yours."

"Mother," he repeats, but he takes the knife from her. It has no sheath, but Mother holds out the linen and leather for him as well, and he takes them and wraps the knife back up. It takes him a moment to gather himself enough to look back at her, and he knows her eyes are shining as much as his own must be. "Thank you for trusting me with this."

"It was always meant to be carried," she says, smiling a little. "And nobody has loved it half as well as you."

Dylan nods. He fears that trying to speak will cause him to break into tears, so he leans down and presses a kiss to his mother's hair, then turns and heads back to where everyone is gathered.

"Is everything well?" Mitch murmurs, standing by Dylan's side as he stows the knife in his saddlebag. "I can't tell if you're upset or not."

"Mother gave me her grandfather's knife," Dylan says. "I'm... overwhelmed, I think. I'll settle once we begin the ride."

Mitch leans in to press a soft kiss to Dylan's cheek. "Well then," he says, stepping back. "We've a long ride ahead of us. We should begin."

-0-

The ride is, as predicted, long.

It's not intolerable; he's riding with Mitch, Matthews, and Alex, and the four of them get along fairly well for a group with only one common link. Alex and Matthews bond over being American, which turns into a rather spirited debate about which land is superior; they don't agree on an answer so much as they agree to drop it, as they're already heading for a fight. Dylan doesn't need to sow any infighting before they reach Timmins.

Still, it's a long three days' journey. They travel up through Sudbury, then follow the road as it turns west and then east again, always heading north. It feels inefficient, but Dylan knows that the shortest distance between two points is rarely the fastest way to get from start to finish, so he bites his tongue and bides his time as they continue north.

It's a relief to find that Timmins is a rather active town upon their arrival, and it's much more heartening to recognise some of the details that Matty was able to recall: the name of a butcher's shop, a tavern, a church. It means that they chose correctly after all and won't have to begin again from scratch, and the thought of it soothes some anxious part of Dylan's soul.

"We'll ride into the woods come tomorrow," Mitch says as they're settling into their room for the night. He's been a stalwart, steady presence by Dylan's side this whole time, and while Dylan isn't thrilled that their relationship began with lies, he can't be angry about how it's turned out. "We're close to figuring everything out, Dylan. We'll find your father, and then—"

"Marry me," Dylan blurts out.

Mitch smiles. "Yes, exactly."

"No," Dylan says, reaching out to take Mitch's hand. "I mean, let's go to the church. It's not too late; I can bring my brother, and you can bring Matthews. We'll find the priest and have him perform the ceremony."

"Right now?" Mitch asks. "Are we suddenly in a rush?"

"No," Dylan says, smiling. "But I'd like to marry you, and I don't see a reason why tonight would be a bad choice."

"Your mother might be angry," Mitch points out. "I'd assume she's already started making plans."

"Mother planned Ryan's entire wedding," Dylan replies. "I'm sure she'd love the chance to plan another, but I'm not robbing her of her only chance."

"You truly wish to marry me now?" Mitch asks. Dylan can't tell if the tone of his voice is wondering or trepidatious. "Right at this moment?"

"I truly do," Dylan confirms. "If you'll have me, that is. I'd understand if you'd rather wait."

"No, not at all," Mitch says, smiling slowly. "Let's do it. I'll find Auston; you find Ryan. We'll meet back here, and then we'll go rouse the priest."

Dylan doesn't hesitate to lean in and kiss Mitch square on the mouth. "I'll return as quickly as I can."

"As will I," Mitch promises, laughing as he leaves the room.

It's easy to find Ryan; he's talking with Michael and Matthew about tomorrow, and he smiles when Dylan enters. "You seem to be in a good mood."

They'd said only Ryan and Matthews, but Dylan suddenly wants Michael there as well; where Michael goes, Matthew will follow, and Dylan can't find it within himself to leave them out. "Mitch and I are getting married," he says to all of them. "Tonight. I came to find you. Will you stand with me?"

Part of Dylan expects Ryan to object, but he simply smiles and stands. "I'd be honoured to," he says. "Do you have something nice to wear? Either of you?"

"No," Dylan admits. "Your wedding will be much nicer. I just want to marry him tonight."

Matthew stands as well, reaching out to clap Dylan on the shoulder. "Let me see what I can rouse up," he says. "Give me a bit of time. I won't be too long."

"Thank you," Dylan says with feeling. He turns to Michael. "My apologies for beating you to the altar. I hope you can forgive me."

Michael sighs, but he's smiling. "I'll forgive you," he promises. "I'll also go in search of rings, since I'm quite sure you haven't thought of that, either."

Dylan laughs, which is as much agreement as he needs to give, truly. Michael shakes his head and leaves, and then it's just Ryan and Dylan in the room.

"I won't question your decision," Ryan says, voice quiet but firm. "Mother may well, though."

"I'm expecting her to," Dylan says, shrugging slightly. "This is what I want, though. Here, now."

"Then here and now it will be," Ryan says, smiling. "Have you found Connor yet? Alex?"

Dylan winces slightly. "No," he admits. "I was only looking for you, to be honest, but then Michael and Matthew were here, so..."

Ryan laughs. "Well, it's your decision, but I'm sure Connor would want to be there."

"Dylan," Mitch calls, and Dylan turns as he walks into the room, trailed by Matthews, Crouse, and Konecny. "I might have invited more than just Auston."

"Well," Dylan says, laughing aloud. "I won't be upset about that if you promise not to be upset that Michael and Matthew will also be in attendance."

"I'm going to find Connor and Alex," Ryan says firmly. "Everyone will be in attendance. We'll meet at the church in an hour's time."

"Then we should go find the priest," Mitch says, laughing a little. "Hopefully he's in a mood to indulge us."

"Hopefully," Dylan says, reaching out for Mitch's hand. "I'd rather not wait anymore."

Mitch just smiles as he leads Dylan towards the exit.

The priest is younger than Dylan was expecting; he's older than Ryan, but probably not much older than Ryan's fiancé. He smiles when Dylan and Mitch make their request and agrees to perform the ceremony on little notice if they'd be willing to make a donation to the church's outreach committee; Mitch agrees without hesitation, and Dylan feels as if he might never stop smiling.

Matthew manages to hire suits for them to use and Michael finds a pair of simple rings, and everyone turns up on time. It's quick and quiet and peaceful, listening to the sermon and making vows in front of their friends, and then Dylan's leaning in to press a sweet, soft kiss against Mitch's mouth as the priest pronounces them husbands in the eyes of God and man.

It's likely not the most orthodox way to spend the night before what could prove to be a major battle, but Dylan honestly wouldn't have it any other way.

-0-

Dylan wakes suddenly, heart in his throat, when he hears a noise in the bedroom.

"Easy, easy," Mitch says, holding his hand out when Dylan sits bolt upright in the bed. "I just went to relieve myself. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I regret to inform you that you failed," Dylan says, laying back down and closing his eyes. "Though it's possible that I'm slightly on edge."

Mitch laughs softly, and Dylan can feel the bed dip beside him. A moment later, Mitch is curling up against him, skin slightly cool where he's touching Dylan. "I think you have good reason for that."

"Well, at least I have my husband back with me now," Dylan says. He doesn't need to open his eyes to wrap his arm around Mitch's shoulders. "I've been told husbands are good protection against what might ail a person."

"It's true," Mitch says agreeably. "Did you sleep well?"

Dylan hums a little. "I... slept."

"That'll have to do," Mitch says. "It's not quite dawn, but it's close enough that more sleep likely isn't an option."

"Well," Dylan says, finally opening his eyes back up. "I suppose we should get up then."

"In a moment," Mitch says. He tilts his head up and Dylan gives in immediately, leaning in to kiss Mitch. It feels novel, exciting; they've not exactly kept to the church's rules about what should and should not happen between couples before marriage, but still, waking up with his husband in his bed is new.

Mitch draws back eventually, and Dylan can hear how disappointed the noise he makes is. It makes Mitch laugh, which makes Dylan smile, and they share a nice moment just basking in each other's presence.

It's ruined far too soon for Dylan's liking by a knock on the door. "Dylan, Mitch," Connor calls. "We're all getting ready to set out, and we wanted to be sure you were preparing."

Dylan ducks in to press a quick kiss against Mitch's mouth, the pulls away. "We are," he calls back. "We'll meet you by the stables shortly."

Mitch sighs. "After this is all sorted," he promises, "we should take a trip. Go away for a little while, just the two of us, and then we can linger as long as we'd like."

"After," Dylan agrees. "But for now..."

"Right," Mitch says, rolling out of bed. "Now, we have a father to find."

It's not difficult to get dressed and make sure everything is packed up; Dylan checks that his knife is secure twice before they leave for the stables, and before long they're all gathered there together.

Connor clears his throat and looks around. "I'm hardly the one in charge here," he begins.

His Ryan laughs softly beside him. "You're the only one here who truly believes that, love."

"Hear, hear," Dylan calls, smiling slightly. Connor is a born leader, and almost too good at what he does; Dylan has no problem with stepping aside and letting him take charge when it comes to an actual battle. "If anyone here is under the impression that you'll be following me into battle, please know that I hereby defer to Colonel McDavid."

Connor smiles slightly. "Well, then, this will be easier." His face grows serious as he looks around. "There is every possibility that someone will be hurt today. We have the element of surprise on our side, but they've already shown themselves to be quite merciless. Once we lose that element, know that they will hold no quarter, and as such, neither should you."

It's silent for a moment, and then Matthews speaks. "We'll find what we can find, and then we'll figure out how best to press on from there. Any questions?"

Dylan glances around, but the faces of everyone gathered—all his friends now, he supposes, else they wouldn't be here—are calm. "I believe we're ready to head out," Konecny finally says. "Let's get to it, lads."

Mitch snorts quietly. "I should have guessed," he says, voice fond. "But I'm in agreement: let's get to it."

It's quick work to get the horses ready, and within a quarter-hour they're on their way. Matty hadn't been able to tell them which direction he'd ridden in from, but Mitch and Connor's Ryan had spent some time poring over maps of the area, and they've narrowed it down to two possible locations, one to the west and one a bit more to the north. It won't be a long ride to reach the first location, so Ryan rides beside Connor, directing their group this way and that.

It's only an hour or so after they all met near the stables before Connor holds up a hand. They all draw to a halt, and a quick gesture from Connor has Hall sliding off his horse and heading into the woods. He's startlingly silent on his feet for such a large man, and he returns as quickly as he'd left, giving Connor a complicated series of hand gestures. Connor nods silently, and Hall heads back to his horse.

Connor clears his throat. "Hall saw six guards," he says quietly. "Stay in pairs. Alex, with me and Ryan; we'll head for the prisoners' area and see about more guards there." He looks around. "Move quickly."

Dylan nods when Connor looks at him. He's never gripped his reins so tightly before; his hands are shaking a bit, he realises, and when he locks eyes with Mitch, he can tell that he's not the only one whose nerves are running high. He kicks lightly at his horse's side when Michael starts moving, and it takes no time at all to speed to a gallop. He breaks into the encampment and peels left, heading towards a guard who has started running towards an outbuilding. Mitch keeps with him, and together they overtake the guard.

Mitch pulls ahead, then steps sharply in front of the man, cutting off his path. Dylan leaps from his horse, praying that she'll not wander too far, and slams into the man, making them both fall to the ground.

"You," Dylan snarls, grabbing the man and twisting his arm up behind his back. "What's going on here? Why are you doing this?"

The man throws his head back; he would have collided with Dylan's face, to be sure, but Dylan's been wrestling with his brothers his entire life, so he avoids the hit and digs his elbow into the man's back.

"Dylan, here," Mitch calls, and when Dylan looks up, he tosses a length of rope down. "Tie his hands and we'll bring him back. It looks as if the fight is mostly over."

It is, Dylan realises as he looks around; the element of surprise had been good enough, it appears, because there are five other guards, similarly bound, all being shepherded towards the largest building.

"Well," he says as he finishes his knot, "this all seems... rather anticlimactic."

Mitch huffs a laugh. "I'll take it, though."

"Oh, so will I," Dylan says. Standing is a bit awkward, because he's loathe to let go of the guard lest he try to escape. Mitch dismounts his horse, and they manage it together; their horses seem content to graze for the moment, so Dylan starts walking the guard towards the larger group.

"Father isn't here," Ryan reports when Dylan gets within earshot.

Dylan's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. They've been lucky enough so far, and it makes sense that if Father hadn't been here before he wouldn't be here now, but it's still disheartening. "Okay," he says aloud. "What of the prisoners who were here? How is their health?"

"Some better than others," Hall says. "Ebs is in there with the doctor now. Most of them are quite weak, but they seem certain that they'll recover with rest and proper care."

"That's good," Crouse says. "Do they know anything that could be of use to us moving forward? It's not that I wouldn't trust any information that this lot gave up, but I'd rather have it from the people we saved, if possible."

"An excellent question," Mitch says. "Dylan, shall we join Eberle and Matthew? You've the best idea of what we're going after."

"Go," Connor says, pointing to the largest outbuilding. "I'll see if anyone in this group is feeling... cooperative."

Dylan starts walking towards the outbuilding hurriedly; he has no desire to see whatever Connor is about to do.

"Dylan," Michael says as they approach. "Your father—"

"I know," Dylan says, sighing. "Ryan told me. We thought we'd try asking the prisoners if they had any information that could help."

Michael nods. "It's a good idea," he agrees. "Be warned, though. Matty's description was... kind."

"Kind," Dylan repeats. "That's rather discouraging."

"Let's see for ourselves," Mitch says, opening the door and stepping through.

The people in the building are incredibly filthy. There's a pail with water in it, and Eberle is crouched beside a pair of people, talking in a low tone and encouraging them to take a damp cloth from him so they can wipe at their faces; Dylan leaves him to it and heads for Matthew, who's speaking with a woman probably ten years Dylan's senior. Her face is streaked with grime, but she's speaking clearly with Matthew, though she falls silent when Mitch and Dylan approach.

"Dylan, Mitch," Matthew greets. "This is Laura. She's been here two weeks, and she hasn't been able to glean much, but she's going to help me tend to the rest of the people here."

"It's wonderful to meet you, Laura, though I'm sorry about the circumstances," Mitch says, giving her a warm smile. "I hope we'll be able to get you home soon, but I thank you for any help you're able to provide before that point."

Laura nods and looks back to Matthew for a moment before turning to them. "Thank you," she says, and then she edges past them, heading for the larger group of people near the back of the building.

Matthew sighs. "Her mind is clear, but I fear she'll have nightmares the rest of her life. And she's the newest person here."

"She won't be the only one, then," Mitch says grimly. "Have you spoken with everyone? Is there a roll of some sort?"

"Not yet," Matthew says. "I performed a sort of triage, asking for the most infirm people to be treated first, and then I asked for volunteers. The ones who claimed better health but who haven't volunteered are back there." He gestures towards the group. "Approach them carefully, if you must. They've been through hell."

"We'll be as quick as we can," Dylan promises. "And we'll see if we can find anyone else who's willing to get treatment. Thank you, Matthew."

He nods and turns back towards Eberle, mind already moved on, so Dylan takes Mitch's hand and squeezes it to fortify himself before heading slowly towards the huddled mass at the back.

"Hello," he says, trying to sound firm but gentle. "I mean you no harm. My name is Dylan Strome, and we're here to help you get home, as well as to find a missing member of my family. If any of you have—"

There's a loud cry from the back of the group, and then the people are parting as one of the figures stumbles to the front. He ignores Dylan entirely, looking to his right. "Mitch? Mitchell Marner?"

Mitch inhales sharply, then takes a step forward. "Is that—Chris? Is that you?"

"Mitchy," Chris Marner says, reaching out. "Oh, god above, I thought—"

"Chris," Mitch gasps, darting to his brother's side and drawing him in. "Oh, good god, Chris."

-0-

Christopher Marner is not what Dylan was picturing based on the stories Mitch had told him.

Granted, he's spent the last two years being forced to work in a mining operation with deplorable working conditions and no pay, so Dylan will gladly give him a pass on being the outgoing, friendly man that Mitch had described. He's tall and gaunt, eyes bruised even after he cleans his face, but his spirit seems strong.

"I simply can't believe it," he says yet again as they sit together near the door to the building. "I thought I'd die in that mine. I believed it more and more every day."

"You'll never have to go down there again," Mitch says fiercely. "We'll bring you home and you can rest up. You can do whatever you want now, Chris."

Chris smiles faintly. "Rest sounds good," he agrees. "But there are others. Other camps, other people."

Mitch takes a steady breath. "Mother and Father?"

"I'm sorry," Chris says quietly, looking down. "I found Mother right after I got here, but Father was already..."

Dylan reaches for Mitch's right hand and lets him squeeze as hard as he needs to. Mitch latches on, then nods before continuing. "Is Mother still..."

"I don't know," Chris says. "Once they figured out that we were in the same camp, they moved me. They don't allow relatives in the same camps for fear that someone will get ideas about escaping. I haven't seen her since."

"I'm sorry," Dylan says quietly. "So very sorry, Mitch."

Chris turns to look at him, and despite the rushed introduction inside, Dylan feels like Chris is seeing him for the first time. "I'm sorry," he says politely. "I know you mentioned your name inside, but I'll admit that I didn't catch it."

"Dylan Strome, son of the Viscount of Lorne Park," Dylan says, holding out his hand. "And, ah."

"My husband," Mitch supplies, giving them the barest hint of a smile. "There's quite a bit to catch you up on, Chris."

"Husband," Chris repeats, shaking Dylan's hand. There's strength there that Dylan wasn't expecting, but he supposes that that's what surviving two years of endless mining will get you. "And you helped him find me?"

"My father and brother were taken recently," Dylan says quietly. "It's a bit of a story, but we didn't know we'd even be looking for you. It was a happy accident to find you, but I'm glad we did."

"Strome, you said," Chris says, narrowing his eyes. "A brother? Young, tall, curly hair?"

"Yes," Dylan confirms. "Matthew. He escaped last week, which is how we were able to put the clues together to come on this rescue mission."

"Good for him," Chris says. "And your father is still here somewhere."

"In a different camp, I suppose," Dylan says. "He and Matty were separated after they were captured. We don't have any idea where the other locations are, but we're going to keep searching."

Chris nods. "I can't help you find every camp," he says. "But I can tell you where to find the one that Mother was left in, and there's a chance that someone there will be able to tell you more."

"I'm listening," Dylan says, leaning in.

Chris grabs a stick, then leans over. His map is rudimentary at best, but it's clear enough to follow; Dylan only hopes that the landmarks Chris names are still in place. They're the kinds of things that someone tied to a horse would notice, certainly, but they're also things like "a small abandoned shack" and "a large tree with a knot that resembles clouds" that could have been torn down in the two years since Chris saw them, or things that would be unrecognisable now. There's nothing to do but try, though, so after Chris has laid out every detail he can recall, Dylan nods and calls Connor over.

"Well," Connor says, studying the map. "It's better than nothing. We can ride there and hope that someone else has more information when we arrive."

Mitch nods, then glances to where Chris is talking with Matthew. "Are we riding right away?"

"Soon," Connor says, voice softening. "If you want to ride back with him, Mitch, nobody will think any less of you."

"Just give me a few minutes," Mitch says, putting a brave smile on. "I'll keep on. Just... a few minutes, Connor, please."

"Okay," Connor says. "We'll explain things to everyone else and prepare the horses. Join us when you're ready."

Connor walks away, and Dylan turns to Mitch. "You can go back with him," he says, taking Mitch's hand. "I can't believe what you must be feeling right now, and to think about leaving Chris..."

"He's in good hands," Mitch says, voice barely wavering. "Eberle isn't going to let anything happen to him. I'll see him again shortly."

"If you're sure," Dylan says, leaning in to briefly kiss Mitch. "I'll ready your horse."

Mitch smiles and nods, then turns. Dylan watches him pick his way through the campsite, watches the way Chris breaks off and turns to Mitch, something relaxing in his face as Mitch reaches his side. He turns away then; there are things that Mitch doesn't need him watching, and besides, he does need to ready their horses.

It's a matter of moments before they're ready, and Mitch makes his way over, somehow far more composed than Dylan had been expecting. He nudges Mitch lightly with his elbow. "All good?"

"For now," Mitch replies. "They're going back to Timmins, and we'll meet up with Chris there when we return. I told him to wait a week, and if we didn't return then, to head to Lorne Park and alert your family and the McLeods."

"We'll be back," Dylan says firmly. "But it was a good thing to tell him."

Mitch's smile shows a little strain. "I figured that, should something befall us, your family would be willing to help him."

Dylan reaches out and pulls Mitch into an embrace. “They would," he promises. "And they will, and we'll be there to see it, Mitch, I swear it."

Mitch sighs and relaxes in Dylan's arms. "Let's go find your father," he says after a moment.

"Yes," Dylan says, letting go a bit reluctantly. "Let's."

-0-

Father isn't in the second camp, either, and neither is Mitch's mother, but they find a lot of information there. It's surprising, actually; one of the guards is all too eager to tell them everything he knows, and while he can't give the names of the people in charge, he does provide them with a map of the entire operation, with each mine clearly documented.

"I didn't realise what I was signing on for," he says when Dylan asks him why he's speaking so freely. "By the time I figured it out, I knew that if I left, they'd just... take me. My family too, most likely, and I've a wife and two young sons."

Dylan breathes out heavily. "Thank you for your help," he says. "What's your name? I don't know how much I can promise, but I'm willing to let the judge know your situation and how you assisted us."

"Aaron Ekblad," the man replies. "I appreciate it. And I hope you find your father."

"I do, too," Dylan says before walking over to Connor. He has the map spread out on a table, with the two camps they've already taken circled. There are three more, and it's easy to see where the mine cluster is once the whole picture is laid out in front of them like this.

"We'll have to keep moving," Connor is saying to Michael and Matthews. "They're sure to notice that the other camps aren't doing their work sooner rather than later. Our best chance is to take the other three camps out before they catch on."

Michael hums. "We can't push through all three camps tonight, Connor. It simply isn't possible; it's already past midday."

"We need to get two more done today," Connor argues. "We can leave the farthest one for tomorrow if we camp in the last place for the night, but we're already risking losing much of the element of surprise."

"McDavid," Matthews says. "They're not soldiers, most of them. I propose we ride to the third camp and reevaluate there. It might be more risk than it's worth to press on if our contingent isn't rested well enough to keep moving."

"And we're losing people as we go," Dylan points out. "Eberle stayed with the last group, and Alex is staying with this group. We'll have to be more and more careful on less and less energy the longer we press on today. I'm siding with Matthews."

Connor sighs. "It makes sense," he says grudgingly. "Fine. We'll take one more camp and then see what the group is thinking."

"Thank you," Michael says. "I'd keep going until we were finished if I could, but..."

"We'll figure it out," Dylan says firmly. "Connor, what else needs to be done before we head out?"

Connor glances away, and Dylan follows his gaze to Ryan. He had offered to stay with this camp, but Connor had denied him instantly, and it doesn't take much to see that there's tension there. "Not much," he says. "We'll be ready shortly."

"Take your time," Dylan says, touching his forearm briefly before walking to his horse.

Unsurprisingly, Connor doesn't take much time; they're underway quickly, and they arrive at the next camp within an hour. It goes much the same as the last, save for the lack of helpful guards, and then Connor calls the group together.

"If you were my men, I'd order us all to keep pressing tonight," he says clearly. "However, I understand that you aren't soldiers. I know that the exhaustion is hard to fight through, and I'm going to put it to a vote. Do you want to make camp here and press on in the morning, or do you want to ride to the next camp now?"

Dylan keeps quiet as murmurs rise around him; he's tired, but he's more used to it than most of the others, given his previous work with his father. He's also keen to press on and find his father, which means that he has at least that to run off of.

"You want to keep going," Mitch says, appearing beside Dylan. "I don't blame you, but it might be for the best if we wait."

"I don't want to," Dylan says quietly, closing his eyes. "We must be so close."

"If you want to go, Dylan, I'll go with you," Mitch says. "But know that if we do press on tonight, it will likely be with a smaller group. The fight will be more exhausting, and the risk of injury—or worse—would be higher."

Dylan sighs and opens his eyes, looking at Mitch. "I'm aware," he says ruefully. "I want to press forward to find my father, but it's as if I can hear his voice in my head at the same time, telling me not to push forward with the job if it meant a great risk to my wellbeing."

"He seems like a smart man," Mitch says. "Perhaps it would be best to heed his advice."

"It would," Dylan agrees. "We should go convince Ryan. I'm sure he's being stubborn."

Mitch laughs. "A family member of yours, being stubborn? Perish the thought."

"I've met you, as well," Dylan says, voice dry. "Please correct me if I'm misguided, but any child that we might raise in the future would never be known as a shrinking violet."

Mitch's face goes soft in an instant. "We didn't have the chance to discuss the possibility of children," he says softly. "You'd be interested?"

"Of course," Dylan says, reaching out, glad when Mitch takes his hand. "With you? Of course."

They smile at each other, drawing closer, and Dylan feels like this moment is special, magical someow. It ends abruptly, though, because someone coughs beside them.

"I hate to interrupt," Ryan says, tone stilted. "But I wanted to speak with you about continuing on."

Dylan sighs, but he doesn't drop Mitch's hand as he turns. "We should stay here," he says plainly. "It doesn't make sense to push on, not with how tired everyone seems to be. We'll only be putting ourselves at risk if we don't get some rest, and Father wouldn't appreciate that."

Ryan looks somewhat shocked. "I thought I would have to convince you," he says. "You're certain? You're okay with staying the night here?"

"I'm not thrilled about it," Dylan says, shrugging slightly, "but I know that everyone has limits. Trying to surpass them because I'm anxious about Father's wellbeing won't serve anyone well."

Ryan's smile is a bit relieved. "I'm glad to hear it," he says. "I promised John that I wouldn't do anything foolhardy, but if you were dead set on going, I would have joined you."

"Well, I'm glad that you'll be able to tell your fiancé that you didn't do anything more foolhardy than this whole mission has already been," Dylan says, smiling. "Let's stay the night and continue on tomorrow."

"Excellent," Ryan says, laughing slightly. "Now all we need to do is break the news to Connor."

Dylan groans, and Mitch joins Ryan; before long, they're all laughing together.

-0-

The fourth camp is much like the first three had been, with one notable exception.

"I'm sorry," Crouse says, eyes downcast. "I had him, and then—"

"He got away," Konecny finishes. "I don't know how, Strome, and I apologise. One of the guards got away, and he's either on his way back to the camp we stayed in last night, or heading for the camp we haven't hit yet to warn them."

Dylan sighs deeply. "Well, there's only one way to find out. Are we ready to set out?"

"We are," Connor says. "Ride quickly. We likely won't overtake him, but we may arrive not long after he does, which will give them less of a chance to prepare."

The ride to the fifth camp is fairly short, and it's by far the most grim ride yet; there are no jokes between them, no lighthearted stories swapped during the journey. They push their horses to go as quickly as they dare through the unfamiliar terrain, but when they arrive in the clearing where the fifth camp is, it's clear that the rogue guard had arrived in enough time to make a difference.

Connor rides to the front of the group, and Dylan barely has time to spare a thought for how unsurprised he is before Connor begins to speak. "We've taken the four other camps you had set up, and we're aware that there are no others," he says confidently. "You can surrender now and perhaps receive leniency. The choice is yours."

"Go to hell," someone shouts, and Connor shrugs.

"As you wish," he says simply, and then he's charging ahead, leaning forward to knock his target to the ground.

It's pandemonium; these guards are much better prepared than the previous camps' guards had been, and whether that's due to the warning or this being a more important target Dylan can't be sure. It does make him glad that they'd rested the night before, though, because while they do have to fight far more than they had all day yesterday, Dylan finds himself able to keep up with Hall and Matthews, who are both fighting like the world depends on it.

There's no time to think of anything but the fight. It had been over quickly the day before and in the camp this morning; preparation, Dylan supposes, truly is key. Being able to grab arms really does turn the tide of a fight, and that's the thought in his head when he sees a very familiar knife slicing through the air towards him.

"You," he shouts, dodging Matty's knife as it's brandished by a guard. "That isn't yours, thief."

The guard laughs. "So you're the one we were supposed to kill in London? That's good to know."

"Kill," Dylan repeats, but he can't focus on that at the moment; instead he dodges again and points his own knife at the guard. "Give up now so I'm not forced to hurt you."

The guard laughs again, a wild, uncanny sound, and Dylan doesn't even think as the guard rushes him. He simply holds his knife in front of him, and he watches as it catches the guard's arm. It at least causes the guard to drop the knife, and then drop to his knees, clutching at his shoulder.

"No," he howls, casting his eyes about as if searching for someone. "We were promised safety!"

"By whom?" Dylan asks. He feels the ill humour rise in his gut, but before he can deliver the other half of his scathing retort, the guard speaks again.

"Bettman promised," he says, falling rather dramatically to the ground. "Nothing was to happen out here!"

Dylan stills completely. "Bettman?" he asks cautiously. "General Bettman?"

"Yes, and he promised," the man howls. "I wouldn't have volunteered for the special assignment, except the general promised that it would be completely safe! He lied!"

"Friend, he lied about a great many things, I think," Dylan says, trying not to let his voice shake. "Stay down. I'll call our doctor and he can bind your arm."

"No," the man says, rising unsteadily to his feet. "No, I won't—"

"Torres," someone shouts, and Dylan turns to see another guard, hands bound behind him but still standing proudly. "Stand down, man. The fight is over."

"No," Torres repeats, a wild look in his eyes. "No, I won't stand down, I won't be beaten—"

He breaks off with a guttural howl and starts running towards the group at large. He'd grabbed Matty's knife while he was on the ground, Dylan realises, and he doesn't have time to think anything else, to react in one way or another, before Connor steps out of the group and lands a kick square in Torres' chest. It sends him stumbling, and then Connor is moving in ways Dylan has only heard about, striking out and moving back with speed and intensity so precise that it's almost beautiful to watch. It doesn't last long; Connor hits a spot on Torres' shoulder, then his wrist, and Torres drops the knife. It gives Connor an opening to take him down, and when he hits the ground, Connor's on him in an instant, pulling his arms up behind his back and holding his hand out without looking. Hall steps forward and gives him a length of rope, and in almost no time, Torres' arms are bound securely.

Connor leans over. "Are you done fighting?"

"You've bound my arms," the man snarls. "Let me free and ask me again, you coward."

"Oh, I think not," Connor replies. "You seem talkative today, Torres. Care to tell me what kind of operation you're trying to run here?"

"General Bettman is going to tear you limb from limb, boy," Torres spits, and Connor's spine straightens.

"Torres," the lead guard snaps. "Shut your mouth or I'm going to ask our captor here to shut it for you."

"Colonel," Torres whines, and Dylan watches as Hall glances at Connor, then back at the guard, his eyes narrowing. "These men are—"

"I'm Colonel Connor McDavid, first battalion, Royal Canadian Regiment," Connor says crisply. "I'd assume I outrank you, soldier, so I would advise answering my questions if you want to avoid charges."

"We will tell you nothing," the guard says calmly. "Torres, if you value your life, you'll stay down when McDavid lets you up, hear?"

"Understood," Torres says, though Dylan can tell he's not happy about it. "Off me, you oaf. I'll behave."

"I doubt that," Connor says, voice dry, but he stands anyway, keeping close watch on Torres. "Hall, Konecny, Crouse, and Matthews. Keep watch over our group of friends here while the rest of us spread out to see what we can find."

"Will do," Matthews says, positioning himself between Torres and the talkative guard. There's an easy grace to his movement that Dylan's starting to learn belies the real danger he could pose. "We'll let you know if anything... goes awry."

Connor nods, then looks to Dylan. "Are you injured?"

"No," Dylan says, shaking his head as he retrieves Matty's knife. There's no need to repeat what Torres had said about Bettman; now Connor knows, too. Still, Dylan has to actively keep himself from shouting about it. "Let's find my father."

He follows Connor towards the prisoners' barracks; they're among the last people there, and Dylan looks automatically for Ryan, hoping that he's found Father already, hoping that he's hale and healthy. He scans the room but doesn't immediately find Ryan, and he's about to begin a more careful search when he hears Ryan shout. "Mitch! Come here, come quickly!"

Dylan heads for Ryan's voice immediately. He's kneeling in the back of the barracks near a cot on the floor, several worn garments spread there beneath a frail, ancient-looking woman.

"Mama," Mitch cries out, falling to his knees beside Ryan. "Mama, are you—do you—"

Lady Marner blinks her eyes open slowly and seems to take a moment to focus her gaze on Mitch. When she does, she makes a pained noise. "Paul?"

"No," Mitch chokes as Dylan sinks down beside him. "Mama, it's me. It's Mitch."

"No," Lady Marner says, her forehead creasing. "No, Mitch, not you too. Tell me they didn't take you, too."

"No, no," Mitch says, reaching out with a trembling hand. "Mama, we're here to rescue you."

"To," Lady Marner says, but she doesn't seem to know how to finish her thought. "What?"

"Mama," Mitch repeats. His hand is sitting still in the air just above hers. "We're going to take you home, me and—"

He leans into Dylan's side, and Dylan wraps an arm around his shoulders, drawing him in. "Lady Marner," he says gently. "I'm Dylan Strome. I married your son, and I hope to get the chance to know you in our home."

"Married?" another voice says from Dylan's right, and he turns so quickly that he nearly topples himself and Mitch both as he meets his father's eyes. "God's ears, Dylan, I wasn't gone _that_ long, was I?"

"Father," Dylan says, feeling the tightness that's been present in his chest this last month loosen and set free at last. "Oh, it's good to see you."

"And you, son," Father says, leaning in to embrace him and not much minding that Mitch comes along for the ride. "It seems we have even more to catch up on than I thought."

-0-

Lady Marner is by far the weakest among the prisoners; Matthew takes Dylan aside and tells him quite frankly that if they had waited another month, she wouldn't have survived to see them again. He convinces Dylan and Mitch to let him treat her in the camp for a bit longer before attempting to move her, in the hopes that helping her regain a little strength will make the journey home easier.

Mitch's face is twisted unhappily when Matthew leaves them. "I don't like it," he says. "I understand, but I really don't like it, Dylan."

"Stay," Dylan suggests. "Keep her company here. That way you can assure yourself that she's in good hands, and she can be reminded that you're here to help."

"I don't want to leave you, either," Mitch says, smiling briefly. "But you have to go with your family, and—"

" _You_ are my family, as well," Dylan cuts in, voice firm. "We made that choice, didn't we? Just a few days ago in front of a somewhat confused priest?"

Mitch laughs quietly. "I suppose we did."

"So stay here with Mama," Dylan says, taking Mitch's hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. "I'll go home with Father and Ryan, and we'll gather Chris up along the way. As soon as I let Mother know what happened, she'll see to it that rooms are prepared, and there will be a warm, cozy, friendly home waiting when Mama's well enough to travel."

Mitch raises his free hand to cup Dylan's face and simply watches him for a moment. "You're a good man, Dylan, and I love you," he says finally, leaning in to kiss Dylan, swift and sweet. "I hope we'll see you again shortly."

"I'll be waiting," Dylan promises. "Let's go speak with Matthew again and sort out the details."

They arrange to leave both Crouse and Mitch with Matthew; that way, Mitch reasons, they have someone to send for help, or with news, without Mitch feeling as if he must be the one to leave. It's all settled rather quickly, and then Dylan returns to Connor's side to help him prepare the rest of the prisoners and their former captors for transport.

"What are we going to do with them?" Dylan asks quietly, surveying the lot. It's going to be a long trip, to be certain; they're planning to make their way back through the camps, gathering people as they go, and there will be well over a hundred people by the time they reach Timmins again. "We can't possibly move everyone at once. It's simply not feasible."

"I've sent Konecny ahead to the fourth camp," Connor replies. "There was a wagon there. We can use it to transport the sickest and weakest back more quickly, and then bring back reinforcements to help with the rest." His grin is more a grimace. "I'm planning to pull rank in the town and commandeer the barracks. We'll see how well that works."

"And after that?" Dylan dares ask. "What of the news that General Bettman is behind this?"

"I'm unsure, as of yet," Connor says grimly. "It's the word of one man against the general as of now, and I don't know if we can get any of the others to talk. It seems likely that they'll all denounce Torres, if it were to come to a tribunal, and we have no evidence."

"Wait," Dylan says, memory striking him. "Ekblad, the guard in the second camp. He would probably be willing to give us more information."

"True," Connor says, straightening. "We'll have to see. For now, though, we need to concentrate on moving everyone from this camp to the last camp. We can work things out from there."

It's a slow process; some of the prisoners are able to walk, but others have to be carefully helped onto the horses and then guided. The guards are mostly sullen and ornery but able and willing to walk, though Torres has a few friends among the group, so one of the horses has to be used to pull a cart with them in it. It's arduous at best, and it takes well over an hour to get everyone ready to leave. Dylan is already exhausted by the time they set off for the fourth camp, and he figures that it'll be a long few days' journey back to Timmins.

The fourth camp is quiet enough, which seems a blessing as they ride in. Konecny and Connor's Ryan, who had finally won the fight to stay behind, have pulled the cart out, and it's ready for use; it becomes quickly apparent, though, that a choice will have to be made.

"We can keep the guards here," Konecny says, gesturing to the outbuilding that the prisoners had been kept in. "It's more important to get the sick and injured out. We can keep watch over the guards until you can send help back."

Connor doesn't seem convinced. "There are only two of you."

"And you'll only be a few days at most," Ryan says, smiling gently. "We'll keep them separated and bound. There's food enough, and if it eases your mind at all, we'll keep someone else back as well. You'll need fewer people if you're only transporting the injured."

"I don't like it," Connor says plainly. "But the plan is solid enough. I'll return with reinforcements and we'll make short work of transporting the rest of the lot back."

"It's a good plan, like it or not, Colonel," Ryan replies, an amused note in his voice. "Now, if I could speak with Connor, my intended, instead of my superior officer?"

Connor's face flushes slightly. "I don't mean to—"

Ryan laughs. "I only meant to tease you, love. I trust that all is well, and we found who we were looking for?"

"We did," Dylan confirms. "My father is well. Mitch's mother is... alive. Matthew is treating her and we'll fetch her back later."

"I'm glad," Ryan says warmly. Dylan hasn't spent much time with him yet, what with the rescue mission and all, but from what he knows, Ryan and Connor seem a good match. They obviously get along, and Ryan's light yet serene nature is a good balance for Connor's tendency to overcommit to serious tasks.

"Thank you," Dylan says. "Now, what do we have to do to ready everyone for the trip?"

It takes some time to load the prisoners from the fourth camp into the wagon and onto the horses, and more time still to secure all of the guards in a way that satisfies Connor. Finally, though, Connor takes a moment alone with Ryan, and then they begin the trip back.

-0-

Once they reach Timmins, Eberle and the town's doctor begin the work of truly triaging the former prisoners. The weakest ones are transferred to the bed and breakfast in town, which will serve as an impromptu hospital until everyone is healed enough to leave; the stronger ones, though, are grouped roughly according to location and are soon being escorted towards homes that many of them haven't seen in years.

"Dylan," Connor says, stopping by the chair Dylan's spent the better part of an hour in. "Is he well, your father?"

"He's well enough," Dylan says, his smile tired. "The doctor is more worried about Chris. It seems that Chris regularly stepped between the guards and whoever they were angry enough to strike out at, and he's healed poorly over time."

Connor makes a sympathetic noise and claps Dylan on the shoulder. "When he's released, you and Ryan take him and your father home," he says. "I've sent word to some men I trust. We're going back for the rest as soon as they all arrive."

Dylan looks up at him. "I can help."

"This is a military matter now," Connor says. His voice is gentle, though his expression is anything but. "Thank you for your service, Dylan. You have your family back, and now I'm going to clean house and figure out what the hell is going on in my own backyard." He coughs. "You'll pardon my language, I'm sure."

"Damn Bettman straight to hell," Dylan says cheerily, and Connor laughs. "Don't forget about Ekblad in the second camp, Connor. He might be of more help, and I truly do believe that he just got in over his head."

Connor sighs. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," Dylan says, hoping he sounds as sincere as he feels. "Do let me know when things are more settled and you and your Ryan set a date, won't you?"

It draws a laugh from Connor. "It may not be for a while," he warns. "We're supposed to be on leave, but something tells me we'll be called back to active duty rather quickly once the news of this breaks."

"Stay safe, then," Dylan says, standing so he can pull Connor into a quick embrace. "Don't let yourself get caught in the middle of anything. Bettman could do a lot worse than ruin your career."

Connor smiles, devious and proud. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve," he says. "Bettman won't know what hit him."

"Hopefully _you_ get to hit him," Dylan says. "Throw a punch for me."

"I've got several with names on them," Connor says. "But I'll make sure to throw yours first. Mitch gets the three after that, though."

"Fair," Dylan allows. "Put his ahead of mine. I quite think he's earned that, at the very least."

Connor laughs again, but his reply is cut off by the door opening behind him. Dylan turns, trying his best to read the doctor's face.

"He'll be fine, Master Strome," Doctor Mahovlich says with a tired smile. "He needs rest, and to not do anything more strenuous than reading a book for the foreseeable future."

"Is he well enough to travel?" Dylan asks.

"I'm perfectly fine," Chris says, edging his way past the doctor. "I'd like to go home, Dylan, if that's quite all right with you."

Dylan hesitates slightly. "Mitch and I actually thought to bring you back to my family's estate," he says. "With my mother there and the McLeods close by, there will be people to oversee your recovery. And your mother's," he adds before Chris can protest. "I'm afraid that there wouldn't be a consistent level of care at your estate. I'm quite willing, but my training lies elsewhere entirely."

Chris sighs. "My brother married a chronic worrier," he says, turning to the doctor. "Mightn't I just return to the mine? I promise I'll work shorter hours."

"Oh, I wouldn't recommend that, my boy," Father says, appearing at the end of the hall. But for a slight limp that he blames on a sore foot, Father seems none the worse for the wear. "For one, the smell of our estate is far better than those dank pits. Food's better, as well."

"Well, I suppose if the food is better," Chris says, smiling at Father. "I'm convinced."

"Glad to hear it," Father says. "Now, if all is set, we've a carriage waiting."

"A carriage?" Dylan questions, raising an eyebrow.

Father sighs and rolls his eyes slightly, and there's a wry smile on his face. "Ryan's intended heard of our plight."

"Oh dear," Dylan says, trying not to let his dismay show. "Did he simply send a carriage, or—"

"Dylan," Ryan calls, and Dylan turns in time to see Ryan and John round the corner. The besotted look on Ryan's face makes Dylan sigh. "John's come to take us home. Are we ready?"

"I've changed my mind," Dylan mutters beneath his breath so only Connor can hear him. "Enlist me in the army. I'd rather spend my days fighting than endure this carriage ride."

Connor begins to laugh, and Chris joins in; apparently Dylan wasn't as quiet as he'd hoped. "I don't think so, brother mine," Chris says, looping his arm around Dylan's shoulders. "We'll have the whole ride to get to know each other."

"I can hardly wait," Dylan says. His tone is as long-suffering as he can make it, but he knows he's smiling too widely for it to sting.

-0-

_One year later_

The wedding was lovely; Connor and Ryan both looked sharp in their dress uniforms, and Dylan knows that he wasn't the only one crying. Mitch had been a nonstop fountain, so at least Dylan can take comfort in that, if nothing else. They're all waiting, now, for the grooms to change into clothing more appropriate for the small reception that Mother had insisted on organising with Lady McDavid. Dylan privately thinks it was at least in part to give Mama something lighthearted to focus on, but so far the results appear to be a meadow with tasteful decoration and more food than Dylan can imagine them all eating, so he'll keep his mouth shut.

"A year," Mitch says quietly, bringing Dylan out of his thoughts. "Can you believe it's been an entire year since everything transpired?"

"It seems impossible," Dylan admits. A lot has happened. He's unsure of all the details, but he knows the important parts: Connor had called upon Sidney Crosby while Matthews had sent for Jack Eichel, and when both men arrived with their forces in tow, they'd made quick work of the guards in the camps. Several of them had turned against their employer, and between the evidence gathered from the camps and from the meticulous logs that had, for some reason, been kept of the entire operation, they had been able to take Bettman and his entire crew down. The last Dylan heard, they were sent on a prison ship back to England, and he doesn't envy them the trial that awaits them there.

Mitch smiles. "And yet, here we are," he says, gesturing around them.

"Here we are," Dylan agrees. "And I suppose we have all the answers we need, don't we?"

"There's one question that still bothers me," Mitch says, laughing a little as Matthews wanders in their direction; he and Connor had bonded during the course of the mission, apparently, hence his presence here now. "The third horse. It's silly, I know, but I can't figure out for the life of me what could have possibly prompted them to leave one of their horses with Arborvitae and Lycea back at the beginning of the whole mess."

Matthews was apparently close enough to overhear the whole thing, because he begins laughing. "I can answer that for you," he says. "It's as ridiculous as you think it is, but Ekblad freely volunteered the information."

"Oh, do tell," Dylan says, smiling. Ekblad had detailed every single thing he knew about the operation, and after a thorough investigation and Connor vouching for him, had been reinstated into Connor's unit. He's an interesting man, Dylan has found. "This sounds interesting."

"It was a mistake," Matthews says, still laughing. "They were to tie their horses up a small distance away so they could make their escape easily, but one of the guards fell behind. He mistook your horses for his group's horses, and it wasn't until they all arrived back at the camp with your father and Matty in tow that they realised they were missing a horse."

Mitch laughs. "How on earth could it have taken them so long?"

"I honestly have no idea," Matthews replies. His laugh is deep and infectious, and the image of the guards scrambling around, wondering what had happened to one of their horses, is honestly fairly funny. It's enough for Dylan to join in the laughter, anyway, and Mitch doesn't last much longer past that either.

"That's absurd," Dylan manges, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief. "I know that details get lost when there's pandemonium, but that's simply above and beyond ridiculous."

"They forgot an entire horse," Mitch says, and they all start laughing again.

The past year hasn't been easy, not in the slightest. Mama still trembles, and she often wakes up crying out in the night; Chris has taken to sleeping in an antechamber in her rooms, and they often end up comforting each other. The Marner estate is being run in full by Jennifer and Jeremy, and Mitch and Dylan have only been back a handful of times since the rescue mission. He and Mitch will be heading back on a more permanent basis soon enough, and Dylan can only hope that the future will be brighter than the recent past has been once everything settles.

Mitch once again draws Dylan from his thoughts. "What's on your mind?"

Dylan smiles at him. "Have you spoken with Katie recently?"

Mitch's face lights. "She says the baby kicks her constantly," he says gleefully. "Our son is going to be strong like his father."

"Or perhaps our daughter," Dylan counters. He's good at keeping the blush from spreading across his face now; he hadn't been, not when he and Mitch had discussed having a child, and certainly not when one of Mitch's childhood friends had offered to carry that child for them. He still can't think about how their child was conceived without going scarlet, but it's been long enough now that he's excited to look to the future instead of keeping his focus on the past. It's a good plan, Dylan thinks as Connor and Ryan finally emerge from the house, and he doesn't hesitate to raise his glass when someone calls for a toast.

To new beginnings, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> -wow, what a large time skip! there must have been so many adventures in that missing year! I WONDER IF WE WILL EVER SEE WHAT HAPPENED.
> 
> -extra shoutout to dean, who at one point read "lord mcleod" as "lordy mcleody." if i have to laugh every time i read that, so do you. at least i put it in the end notes?
> 
> -years down the line, one of them will turn to the other and just say "the third horse, though," and they will both absolutely lose it laughing. their kids think they're nuts.
> 
> -did i write a harlequin-inspired fic with zero sex in it? i sure did! that was me! the theoretical smutty outtakes, which exist only in my head, are... extensive.


End file.
